


Cupid's Fiery Shaft

by ChasingRabbits



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - High School, Blow Jobs, Bottom Gabriel, Comedy, Eventual Sabriel, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, High School Student Castiel, High School Student Gabriel, High School Student Sam, Horny Teenagers, Human Castiel, Human Gabriel, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Top Sam, Topping from the Bottom, eventual destiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 89,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingRabbits/pseuds/ChasingRabbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gabriel Milton is forced into working on the school's annual Shakespeare play, he finds himself drawn to one person in particular--a techie named Sam Winchester. </p><p>While waiting on numerous universities to dictate the next major step in his life, Sam has been blowing off steam with his friend, lab partner, and (unknowingly) Gabriel's stepbrother, Castiel Novak. </p><p>Castiel Novak: a swimmer and one of the school's resident oddballs, who finds himself in a quandary upon meeting Sam's older brother, Dean. </p><p>Dean Winchester: gruff-voiced automechanic by day and culinary genius/MegaNerd by night, who might not be as heterosexual as he lets everybody believe.</p><p>If it sounds complicated, that's only because it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note:** Sam is 17 (three months shy of 18), Gabriel and Castiel are 18, and Dean is 22
> 
> So, warning for slight underage.

The thick, musty air of the school’s auditorium curls in Gabriel’s nose and settles at the back of his throat. It turns into a sneeze, which never quite makes it out of his face. Beige: that’s the only thing that he can see. Beige walls, slightly darker beige chairs, mostly beige people… He thought theater kids were supposed to be colorful.

There are about three hundred places Gabriel would rather be, yet here he is, walking right into the lions den that is a high school drama club rehearsal. That’s right, the good ol’ public education system’s got him by the proverbial nads once again.  If he expects to graduate with the rest of his class, he has to pass English. In order to pass English, his teacher insists that he… ugh.

 _Participate_.

Open on: the drama department’s production of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. Every spring, English teacher Mr. Shurley puts on a different Shakespeare play. If that wasn’t miserable enough, the kids who turn up to participate this kind of shit willingly are just sad. And this coming from someone who had to put up with band geeks.

Drama kids, though...  Socially awkward, bombastic artsy types. They hang out in a clump, which Gabriel assumes is because not many people are capable of withstanding the amount of intensity that comes from having so many drama kids in one place. Christ, he hasn’t even been in the auditorium for two minutes and he can hear a chunk of them singing some peppy showtune.

Maybe he’ll just take the hit. Summer school might not be so bad, if it’s just making up one crappy English grade. Then he can blow town, or chill with Andy in his van for a while. Wind at his back, sun on his face--far the hell away from here.

“Gabriel?”

Of course. Gabriel snaps out of his trance and greets, “What’s up, sissy-poo?”

Hannah doesn’t look upset to see him, but does give him a careful, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Hannahkin,” Gabriel sighs. “What are any of us doing here?”

This only leads to an awkward pause. Hannah is a lot of things, but she is not very quick on the uptake when it comes to this kind of repartee. So, Gabriel explains, “My English grade is basically nonexistant. Mr. Shurley said if I helped out with the play, he’d consider not failing my ass.”

Hannah’s eyes go big, her eyebrows go up into her thick, dark curls.

“ _Failing_?” she demands. “Gabriel, how could you be failing English?”

“I know, I know, I speak English--”

“No, I mean we’re only five weeks into the semester,” she says. “How can you be failing already?”

“Oh…” Gabriel purses his lips before quickly supplying, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s got it out for me.”

Despite the fact that Mr. Shurley couldn’t have it out for anyone if he tried.

The faded gray ‘in danger of failing’ in the comments section of Gabriel’s report card wasn’t anything new--he’d had plenty of those. What was most unusual was the fact that this progress report came after the first five weeks of spring semester. How could anyone know he was in danger of failing after five weeks?

_“You haven’t turned anything in since we got back from winter break. You keep doing what you’re doing and, yeah, you’re gonna fail. I can’t just not put that on there.”_

_“Can’t or won’t?”_

The conversation had only down spiraled from there.

“Long story short,” he continues to Hannah, “Mr. Shurley said he’d take participation from this and a written report at the end. And if I get all of my assignments in by the fifteen week, he’ll reconsider.”

“That is a surprising level of negligence,” Hannah simply comments. “Even for you.”

“Thanks, you’re a sweetheart,” Gabriel winks back at her and stuffs his hands in his coat pockets. He rocks back on his heels, desperate to break the silence that’s now fallen between them, “So, if you’re here and I’m here, where’s the Beaver?”

Hannah blinks, then falters, “Gabriel, I don’t know why you ever expect me to know what you’re talking about.”

“Castiel,” Gabriel says. “Yea high, smells like chlorine, your former wombmate?”

“He has swim practice,” Hannah shifts the messenger bag on her shoulder. “And rehearsal is about to start, so keep discussion of all family matters to a minimum.”

“What’s it like to be the socially stunted twin?”

Hannah doesn’t reply, which leaves Gabriel having just doled out a total burn without anyone around to hear it.

Well, _fine_.

Rather than follow Hannah up on stage, Gabriel heads toward Mr. Shurley down in the front row. By the time Gabriel reaches him, he's rummaging through his bag in a manner that doesn't exactly instill the utmost confidence.  

Gabriel can’t believe he agreed to let this schmuck boss him around.

Tired of not being seen, he pipes up, “Hell of an afternoon for some Shakespeare.”

Mr. Shurley looks up from his bag and adjusts his glasses on his face. He’s young--too young to be teaching high school, in Gabriel's opinion. He only looks like he’s about a week older than most of the seniors that he teaches.

“Gabriel, I’m surprised you came,” he says, and Gabriel shrugs.

“If leaping around in tights is what I have to do to get out of this goddamned place.”

“If it makes you feel any better, there’s no leaping or wearing tights on deck for you,” says Mr. Shurley as he finds his script, crinkled and rolled up at the edges, and snaps it to his clipboard. He stands, “Just hang back for today and I’ll see where we can put you.”

All of a sudden he’s got a script in his hand, courtesy of Hannah Novak.

“Gabriel, this is Hannah, our stage manager,” Mr. Shurley explains.

“Yeah, I know,” Gabriel flips through the pages. “She’s my stepsister.”

“Oh,” Mr. Shurley nods, unsure of what to say next. “Well, great. Then we’ll put you on crew. Hannah can give you a rundown while we rehearse today.”

Mr. Shurley then hops up on stage to gather his actors, while Hannah takes a deep breath beside him. Gabriel purses his lips and looks around the vast auditorium space. There’s a clump of kids down at the bottom of the stadium seats, and then one lone guy about halfway up.

This school’s student body is so large that, for the last four years, Gabriel has seen a new face practically every day. It’s not surprising that he’s never seen this guy before; he would have remembered if he had.

The guy’s got his long legs propped up on the chair in front of him, his attention entirely fixated on the book in his lap. Before Gabriel even realizes it, he’s no longer beside Hannah, but in front of this magnetically gorgeous human being.

But because Gabriel is Gabriel, he doesn’t start with a ‘hello’. He doesn’t even have a crappy pick-up line to lay on the guy.

Nope, his mouth opens and out tumbles, “Christ, who the hell reads anymore?”

 _Rude_.

The guy looks up, and of course Gabriel had to be an asshole to a guy with a face like that. It’s even nicer up close. He’s got this innocent looking face, but these tired eyes, framed by this long brown hair that has Gabriel’s fingers twitching.

The guy finally replies, “It’s called homework.”

A sweet, corruptible face and a smartass mouth. This guy might be a little more trouble than Gabriel expected.

Yet, he finds himself smiling and leaning forward. That weird feeling fizzes up in his stomach, the feeling that only seems to surface when he’s talking to good-looking people. The brain-parts fire off an intoxicating cocktail of chemicals, ones that make him laugh too loudly and speak too crassly, that throw off his equilibrium and _hey, what a coincidence_ , you don’t need an equilibrium when you’re doing the horizontal no-pants dance.

“Do you need something?”

Crap, Gabriel’s gone way too long without saying something, hasn’t he?

“I’m new to the whole theater geek thing,” he tries, already finding alternate routes of conversation if this one doesn’t work out. “Thought it would help to put myself out there, make a friend.”

He sticks out his hand, “I’m Gabriel.”

“Oh,” the guy’s eyebrows go up. After a few beats, he shakes it off, “Sorry, I’m Sam.”

Sam… now, why does that name ring a--

“Oh, yeah,” Gabriel breaks out into a smile. “Are you the Sam that got caught on the roof in freshman year?”

“Wow,” Sam lets out a laugh, “Everyone almost forgot about that. Thanks.”

Sarcastic though it was, the laugh spreads warmth through Gabriel. So thick and rich, Gabriel would still drizzle that laughter over piping hot pancakes if he could.

And boy, what a nice change of pace to come across someone who keeps his goat so plainly in sight. Gabriel grins and leans on the chair, “What were you doing up there, Sammy-boy?”

“It’s Sam, and it’s none of your business what I was doing up there.”

Gabriel’s grin gets wider, “You weren’t doing something that was against the rules, were you?”

From up on stage, Mr. Shurley calls, “Quiet in the house, please.”

“I should go,” Sam supplies quickly. “Before Ash gets dibs on running lights.”

He shuts his book and grabs his bag and jets off toward the stage without another word. He’s even taller than Gabriel thought, so tall that he can just hop up on the stage like there’s nothing to it.

Son of a bitch… good looking and athletic? It’s not fair.

“Talking to Sam?”

“Jesus!” Gabriel nearly leaps out of his skin when Hannah appears out of fucking nowhere.

“It appears you made him uncomfortable,” she says.

“Yeah, ya think?” Gabriel snaps back at her. “Christ, a guy can’t engage in a little harmless flirting?”

“Did it ever occur to you that he might not have wanted to flirt with you?” Hannah asks. “He was reading a book and minding his own business, after all.”

Gabriel lets out a harsh breath through his nose, ready to fight back, except, “Ugh, you’re right.”

“I know,” Hannah replies. “It’s just as well. You have to focus on getting your grade up anyway.”

“I’d rather get my dick up,” Gabriel replies frankly, hoping to end the conversation.

“I think everyone within a two-hundred mile radius is well aware of that, Gabriel,” Hannah folds her arms over her chest. “Come with me. There’s a lot to cover if you’re going to be on stage crew.”

Gabriel groans but pushes himself up from the seat anyway. First he creeps out easily the most handsome guy he’s ever met, and now he has to take instructions from his socially stunted sister.

This blows.

* * *

 

Sam spent the duration of that afternoon’s rehearsal trying to get back into his reading, but he couldn’t. That Gabriel thing just kind of threw him for a loop, and no matter what he did he just couldn’t keep focus. He figured he’d have some time to get at least a little done before tonight, but nope, he’d been wrong about that too!

The Impala is parked in Sam’s spot out in the yard, which can mean only one thing:

Dean is here.

Sam parks next to the Impala (maybe a little too closely, just to fuck with Dean) and heads inside. He crunches through the icy snow, all the way up to the porch and into the kitchen. He’s immediately assaulted by buttery garlic and tangy tomato, all tied up with this savory herbaceous, cheesy warmth. All together, it leaves Sam practically drowning in his own saliva.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean grins from over the stove. He stirs up what has to be tomato sauce, and grins at the loud grumble that sounds in the pit of Sam’s stomach.

“I didn’t know you were coming over tonight,” Sam slips off his jacket and gloves. “I would’ve bailed on rehearsal.”

“Ah, it was a last minute thing. Uncle Bobby said you guys were running out of the your freezer stash,” says Dean. “Thought you could do with a fresh batch of sauce, at least.”

That has been one of the biggest letdowns of Dean moving out. Yes, Uncle Bobby and Sam miss him, and things are sometimes too quiet without him around, but neither Uncle Bobby nor Sam has the knack for cooking that Dean does.

They _can_ cook, and do, but everything Dean makes is just inexplicably better. Dean can take a few things from the pantry and the fridge, things Sam would never even think of using, and turn them into something delicious.

It’s hard to readjust to your own crappy cooking after having been kind of spoiled for so long.

“How’s school, nerd?” asks Dean.

“Fine,” Sam whips his backpack off his shoulders and sets it on the table. “I have a bunch of reading to do for AP lit that I wanted to do during rehearsal, but.”

Sam cuts himself off, but it’s too late. He’s already gotten Dean’s attention.

Damn it.

“Things got busy,” Sam explains. If he tells Dean a dude hit on him, he’ll never hear the end of it; if he tells Dean that the guy hitting on him had light swishy hair and intense eyes and a smile so nice that it made him lose his focus… yeah, he’ll never hear the end of it even more.

_Don’t look up, Sam. Do not look up. Act natural._

The silence persists for only a few more nanoseconds before Dean lets out a chuckle, “Yeah, I bet they did. Y’know I hooked up with some of those drama chicks back in my day. Things get hot and heavy, you lose track of time. Books are gonna be there forever. Hookups are time-sensitive offers.”

“Your sagely advice is appreciated,” Sam drones back and cracks open his book. Dean gets the hint, at least, and lets him be until dinner is ready.

By the time Sam has lined the bottom of a bowl with pasta and drenched it with a liberal serving of sauce, Uncle Bobby is home from the shop. He stinks like engine grease still, even though he’s all washed up.

“Boy, you’ve outdone yourself,” Uncle Bobby claps Dean on the shoulder.

Sam doesn’t miss that prideful grin that flits across his brother’s face.

As much as Dean wishes dad would come back, Sam likes when it’s just the three of them. Dean can defend dad until he’s blue in the face, but every time the guy comes around, Dean turns into this ‘yessir’ Full Metal Jacket automaton, which in turn sours Sam and makes him curdle.

Uncle Bobby’s not like that. When John Winchester turned up on his doorstep with nowhere else to go, his two boys in tow, Uncle Bobby didn’t even bat an eyelash before he stepped aside and let them in. Six years later and they’re still here with him, and dad's all but a visitor in their lives.

Uncle Bobby listens, comes to things like school plays and awards ceremonies. He knows when you’re hurt, when you need someone to talk to, but he also knows when you need to be told to suck it up and _'just get it done'_.

“Sam, you look about a million miles away.”

Sam looks up from his bowl, which he only now realizes is empty. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Just had a long day.”

“Gettin’ head from a girl in the lighting and sound booth,” Dean sings horrendously off-key.

“Shut up, I did not!” Sam snaps back. The thing is, he’d probably tell Uncle Bobby about his encounter with Gabriel. Not that he’s exactly privy to any of Sam’s sexual escapades, with boys or with girls, but he’d listen if Sam needed him to. He looks at Uncle Bobby and promises, “I swear, I didn’t.”

“Dean, quit bein’ a pain in the ass,” Uncle Bobby says. “Sam, if you don’t want people to get your goat, then don’t show ‘em where you keep it.”

Sam scowls and gets up for another serving of pasta.

Stupid asshole brothers and their stupid asshole mouths.

Soon after, Uncle Bobby and Dean drift into a conversation about work. Just because Dean moved out doesn’t mean he gets a free pass on talking shop with the boss. Sam’s heard Uncle Bobby talking about Dean taking over the shop one day, in the very distant future. He says it’s never too early to start grooming a successor.

“Sam, you wanna pick up some extra hours before you head off to school?”

Sam pulls his attention from wolfing down his pasta yet again and swallows. Nerves stir up his stomach, though, and suddenly his food isn’t sitting so easy.

“We don’t even know if I’m going away yet,” Sam reminds him. “For all we know I’ll be going to state and living at home.”

“Shut up,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I told you, we’ll figure out funds when we get to it.”

"I have to get accepted first," Sam reminds him. Just as Dean opens his mouth to retort, Sam's phone buzzes on the tabletop.

It's Castiel, asking, _'When should I come over?'_

Shit, he forgot Cas was coming over tonight too. He texts back, _'Just finishing dinner. Any time is good.'_

_'Then I'll leave now. See you soon.'_

"It's okay if Cas comes over, right?”

“Got all your homework done?” Bobby asks.

“That’s what we’re doing,” Sam fibs. Not that they can’t do that, it’s just that he and Cas had planned on something much, much different.

“Who the hell’s Cas?” asks Dean.

“He’s my lab partner for AP Physics,” Sam replies.

He catches Dean staring at him from across the table and quickly averts his eyes. He knows that’s not exactly the hallmark behavior of someone who’s innocent, but he can’t risk it. If he looks at Dean, he’ll give himself away.

That’s the last thing he needs tonight.

He wolfs down the rest of his pasta and rinses his bowl in the sink. The quicker he is about it, the quicker he can get out front and wait for Cas. That way he has a better chance of sneaking him into the basement without Dean asking questions.

There’s nothing inherently obvious with him and Cas, it’s just that Dean knows him better than anyone, and he’d be able to snuff it out.

Sam steps out onto the front porch and tucks his hands under his armpits. It’s fourteen friggin’ degrees out here and Sam didn’t even grab a jacket. Good move there, Winchester.

Thankfully, Cas is prompt. Sam’s only standing outside for a few minutes before Cas rolls up in his family’s old station wagon. He must have done some pretty fine finessing to get it for the night.

Cas stomps up onto the porch, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. He’s smiling, apparently as excited to see Sam as Sam is to see him. Even though they’re in plain sight, after everything that’s gone down today, Sam can’t help but pull Cas in by the front of his coat for a kiss.

Yep.

Sam Winchester is hooking up with Castiel Novak.

They part, their breath visible between them, and Castiel manages to huff a soft, “Hello, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t waste anymore time. He drags Cas inside behind him and makes sure they’re out of Dean’s line of sight before they bumble down to the basement. Musty and damp and really fucking cold though it may be, nobody ever comes down here. Or, nobody used to. Sam knows Dean used to sneak girls in here all the time.

God, if he knows Sam is down here, the jig is definitely up.

“Did you type up our lab report?” Cas decides to ask as he shucks his coat. Suddenly he goes from looking like an engorged tick to the lithe, well-toned swimmer that he really is.

“Um,” Sam struggles to find the correct answer. Did he? “I think so.”

“Would you mind taking a look at mine?” Cas questions further. “I’ll look at yours, too. I just want to make sure our conclusions line up.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Sam nods. “Can we do that later?”

Cas finally looks up at him and smiles, “I suppose.”

Sam lets out a laugh and takes a step forward, then lays his hands on Cas’ hips and pulls him in the rest of the way. It may be that Sam hasn’t  kissed a lot of people or anything, but he’s kissed enough to know that Cas is exceptionally good at it.

He’s actually exceptionally good at a lot of things, Sam reminds himself, as Cas’ fingers tease just below the waistband of his jeans.

Sam’s body lights up like a pinball machine, nerves all going off at once. He can’t quite get his breath as Cas licks into his mouth, or keep his balance once Cas starts steering him back to the couch. Sam lands on his ass hard enough to make the couch frame crack, and he lets out a laugh.

“Sorry, are you all right?” asks Cas.

“Yeah,” Sam wheezes. “Yeah. The couch isn’t broken?”

“It doesn’t appear so, no,” Cas checks around the back. “Shall we continue?”

Sam pulls Cas down onto his lap and melts into another kiss, perfectly content to let the rest of the day fall by the wayside. He can worry about his unfinished reading later.

Much later.

* * *

 

After Bobby wrestles him away from the dirty dishes, Dean takes to gathering all the trash from around the house. Tomorrow’s trash day and, go figure, Bobby and Sam forgot to take down the bins. They said they’d be fine without him, but six months out and they’ve yet to prove it.

“Hey, when’s this pizza from?” Dean tugs a box out from underneath the couch. He gets the only answer he needs when Bobby’s bewildered, “pizza?” sounds from the kitchen. Dean shoves the box and whatever’s inside it down into the deepest recesses of his black trashbag.

“You guys are gonna get respiratory diseases, I swear,” Dean mutters. He only gets a few more things in the bag before it’s close to splitting and he has haul it outside. It’s the second bag Dean’s managed to fill up, and the bin is only barely big enough to contain it.

Dragging said bin down to the curb in below freezing weather poses its own challenges. By the time Dean gets the bin onto the street, he’s wheezing hard, ice stinging at the back of his throat and down in his lungs. There is nothing okay about how winded he is right now, and son of a bitch, he’s got another bin to pull down here.

He’s about to right himself and go grab the recycling when something catches his eye. On the frosty asphalt, just under the offensively garish Chevy Station Wagon, leaks a runny puddle of bright yellow. Dean laughs to himself as he takes in the rest of the car. It doesn’t look too hot. It’s gotta be a ‘77, maybe a ‘78--not as old as the Impala and _nowhere_ near as well looked after.

Rather than grab the recycling bin, Dean heads back into the house. Uncle Bobby’s done with the dishes and now rests on the couch with a beer in hand. Dean tugs off his gloves and asks, “Sam’s friend the one with the wagon out front?”

“Yep,” Bobby nods. “Wonder the damn thing’s still running.”

“No shit,” Dean lets out a laugh. “It’s leaking antifreeze.”

“No shit,” Bobby repeats, not surprised even in the slightest.

“All right, giggles, jeez,” Dean runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m gonna see if he’ll let me tow it over to the shop; he shouldn’t be driving that thing. They up in his room?”

“Basement, probably,” says Bobby. “That’s where they work most of the time.”

Dean snorts and chides, “Waste of a perfectly good make-out den,” before he turns back toward the basement. The door’s skewed open, so Dean just pushes right in. He toes down the steps, prepared to let out a loud, _“To the owner of a green Station Wagon”_ , but that.

That is not--

 _Not_.

Where Dean expected to find a pair of nerds pouring over some giant ass textbook, snorting and pushing their glasses up their noses or whatever the fuck, he finds Sam, on the couch.

With a dude between his legs.

Dean’s feet won’t work.

Why won’t they work?

His little brother’s getting head from a _dude_ and his body won’t leave. In fact, the only thing his body will do is spit out, “Whoa, what the _fuck_!”

The dude leaps back and Sam shoots up to his feet, quickly tucking himself back into his pants and _why-why-why the fuck is Dean still watching this_? He whips around and covers his eyes for good measure, listening as Sam yammers out a string of apologies, peppered with obscenities.

“Wow, this is--”

“Dean, hang on,” Sam says, but Dean refuses to turn around and acknowledge him. “What the hell, why didn’t you knock?”

“‘cause I didn’t think I’d have to, Sam!” Dean yelps back. “You’re in the friggin’ basement with your lab partner; how the hell was I supposed to know that’s code for getting your dick sucked?”

“Two mutually exclusive and factual points,” Cas reassures, his voice all raspy and--ew.

Just, ew.

“Cas, not now.”

“My apologies.”

“Why is your lab partner sucking your dick?” Dean demands.

“Will you stop talking about dick sucking!” Sam shouts back, under which Dean swears he hears Cas mutter, “Because I like sucking dick.”

“Both of you, cool it!” Sam snaps. Dean hears him take a few breaths then, to orient himself, before he continues, “Dean, I’m sorry you walked in on us, but. I really didn’t want you to find out like this, okay?”

“That you and your lab partner are doing the do?” Dean finally turns around. Cas stands beside Sam, not quite as tall as Dean and definitely not as tall as Sam.

“That… that my male lab partner and I are ‘doing the do’?” Sam asks.

Dean pauses, assesses the situation, and realizes, oh. Right.

“So you like guys,” Dean clears his throat. He’s just about to say, ‘who doesn’t?’, but now is absolutely not the time for that. Instead, he opts for, “That’s cool. No skin off my ass. Or, y’know. Whatever part of my body.”

Smooth.

“I should go,” Cas concludes, but Dean stops him.

“No, you guys just… keep on keepin’ on,” he says. There was a reason he came down here, wasn’t there? He racks his brain for a few moments and remembers, “Right, I came down to tell you that your station wagon’s leaking antifreeze.”

Cas’ face remains stoic, though he cocks his head and asks, “Is that what that is?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “You really oughta get that fixed. Sam could actually probably do it for you.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Sam shakes his head, and gives Dean a look that can only be interpreted as, _‘Why the hell are you still here?’_

“Well,” Dean looks back at Cas, whose eyes have not yet left him. “You really shouldn’t be driving it like that. Engine’ll overheat and blow up on you, if you’re not careful. I can fix it, if you want.”

Cas and Sam look at each other, then back at Dean. Cas clears his throat and gives a raspy, “Thank you.”

“You mind if we keep it here?” asks Dean. “I'll look at it tomorrow, and Sam can give you a ride home tonight. Right, Sam?”

Some doesn’t look like he knows which way is up.

“Of course,” Cas nods. “Thank you, again.”  

“Don’t mention it,” Dean says, then gestures to the entire space around them. “Any of it. Don’t mention it. Never happened at all.”

“Dean!”

“All right, all right!” Dean heads up the stairs. “Lock it the fuck up next time, Ivy League!”

He slams the door behind him and proceeds to stalk back into the living room, where Bobby still sits. Dean can feel the nervous sweats soaking into the bottom layer of his clothes, knows he’s going to start stinking soon enough, because stress sweat always manages to smell worse, somehow.

“You okay, there?” Bobby asks.

“I’ve seen things,” says Dean, far off. “Horrible things.”

“They foolin’ around down there?”

Dean can feel his eyes bug out of his skull. Bobby’s in on this too?

“How the hell do you--did that little fucker tell you?” Dean demands. “What the hell, why wouldn’t he tell me!? I’m cool with it. I’m down.”

“Maybe he thought you’d overreact,” Bobby suggests.

“I do _not_ overreact.”

Finally, Bobby takes his eyes off the TV and gives Dean this withering look. Dean’s shoulders sag and his body sort of deflates, but he’s still riding the adrenaline high.

“And Sam hasn’t said a word,” Bobby reassures. “The kid’s just not very good at sneakin’ around.”

“You let them -- in the house?” Dean folds his arms over his chest. He’s not sure which part of the situation he finds to be the most scandalous.

“Didn’t say anything when you were doin’ it,” Bobby shrugs, and Dean feels his face fall. “Can’t treat him different than I treated you, just ‘cause he’s bringin’ boys home instead of girls.”

“You knew?” is all Dean asks.

“‘course I knew,” Bobby scoffs. “You’re worse than him.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Whatever. I’m gonna call it a night before the guy gets here with the donkey. Goddamn den of iniquity you’re running here… I’ll be back to work on that fuckin’ heap tomorrow morning.”

“See you at the shop when you’re done,” Bobby waves as Dean heads to the back door.

Dean waves back, “Can’t wait.”

* * *

 

“And you _finished_?”

Castiel frowns, “Of course we did. Not right away, but we got there.”

Hannah gives him that calculating stare over the door of her locker and cocks her head. For as similar as they are, Castiel knows that he and his sister relate very differently to sex and sexuality. Hannah sometimes disapproves of his conduct, though with Castiel and Gabriel both under one roof with her, she’s learned more or less not to judge.

“I suppose I’m not understanding what your crisis is,” she finally says. “If you weren’t embarrassed enough not to finish whatever it is that you and Sam were doing, then why are you so embarrassed about it now?”

“It’s different when you’re in the middle of it,” Castiel explains as Hannah shuts her locker. They fall into step as they head across campus, to the auditorium. He continues, “There are hormones and chemicals going through your body that impair judgment--”

“That sounds upsetting,” Hannah observes.

“It is,” Castiel nods, “But it’s normally a good thing.”

“If you say so.”

“All of the embarrassment I should have felt last night, I’m feeling now,” Castiel tries to lay it out for her. “And the fact that I now have to go get our car from him--”

“Why didn’t you just take it somewhere else?” Hannah asks.

“Because he offered to do it.”

Hannah stops and narrows her eyes, her thumbs hooked under her backpack straps and toes wiggling in her boots.

And then she realizes, “You want to see him again.”

Castiel must blush, or give himself away in some manner, because Hannah stares a hole right through him. He can’t help wanting to see Sam’s brother again--Dean, if he remembers correctly. For as beautiful as Sam is, Dean is, in a word, exquisite.

He sighs, “Naturally, I feel guilty about it, but Hannah. You didn’t see him.”

“Do you really think that would help me?” Hannah raises her eyebrows.

Castiel shrugs, “It could.”

They continue their walk toward the auditorium in careful silence. Castiel doesn’t want to dig himself into a deeper hole with his sister, and he can tell Hannah is doing everything within her power not to smack him upside the head.

Finally, she breaks the silence, “I don’t know what kind of advice you expect from me.”

“I don’t expect any,” Castiel assures her. “I just wanted at least one person to know my reasoning in the unlikely, yet probably, scenario that I decide to drive the car into oncoming traffic on my way home.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” Hannah replies as they reach the auditorium. Castiel follows her inside, though stops just as he sees Gabriel sitting in one of the higher rows, playing on his Nintendo DS all alone. He frowns and goes to sit beside him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, only for Gabriel to jump out of his skin.

“Holy fuck!” he exclaims. “You and Wednesday fucking Addams need to quit sneaking up on people.”

“What are you doing at drama club rehearsal?” Castiel asks.

“Picking blueberries,” Gabriel grumbles and kicks his feet up onto the seat in front of him. “The fuck do you think? I’m playing Animal Crossing and trying not to sink down into this cesspit of human misery.”

“That’s very vivid imagery,” Castiel nods.

“What’re you doing here?” Gabriel returns his attention to his game. “Thought you would be in the water with your fellow porpoises.”

“Practice is cancelled for the afternoon,” says Castiel. “Coach Mills is out sick. I get to go pick up the car from my friend’s house.”

“Bummer,” Gabriel doesn’t look up from his game.

“Did I mention I only knew about this leak because my friend’s brother came in to tell me,” Castiel leans in a little closer, “While I had my friend’s dick down my throat.”

Gabriel pauses his body, then pauses his game, and turns to Castiel with rapt attention, “I’m listening.”

Castiel lets out a sigh of relief. Of all the families his mother could have married them into, he’s glad that it turned out to be Gabriel’s. For as much of a pain as he is otherwise, he hardly gives Castiel any guff when he comes to him with sex stuff.

As Castiel explains the situation further, Gabriel nods and begins to process the information. By the time Castiel has finished the story, Gabriel has gathered what he needs for his response.

“First, I have a very important question for you,” he says, voice level and fingers steepled. “Was your friend’s brother hot?”

Okay, he should have seen that coming.

“Well, it was nice talking to you,” he says. “I’ll see you at home.”

But just as he stands to leave, Sam spots him right as he walks into the auditorium and waves at him.  

“Hey, Cas,” he greets. “What’s up?”

“I walked here with Hannah,” Castiel offers. “And am now exercising great restraint in not stabbing my brother in the face.”

Gabriel pipes up from where he sits and greets, “Hey-a Sammy.”

Sam’s eyes go big, “This is your brother?”

“Stepbrother,” Gabriel pipes up. “Baked in a different oven. That’s why I’m so much dreamier.”

Castiel feels his face heat up again as he gives Sam an apologetic shake of his head.

“As much as I hate to leave you with him,” he says, “I do have an appointment to keep with your brother.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam scrunches his eyes shut. “Trust me, it’s not any less awkward today.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Castiel sighs. He turns back to bid Gabriel goodbye, only to see him looking very invested in his game once more. His face is bright red.

At least he appears to have some shame, Castiel notes. That’s what he gets for hitting on everything that moves.

“He did tell me he fixed it up for you, though,” Sam reassures. “So, at least you won’t be stuck at my house watching him demolish a six-pack while he roots around your engine.”

“Delightful,” Castiel nods. “Well, then I’m off to pretend your brother isn’t aware of my nonexistent gag reflexes and possibly have to look him in the eye at some point.”

“Good luck,” Sam snorts.

As much as Castiel would like to pull Sam down into a kiss before he goes, he knows that would not end well, for either of them. It may be the twenty-first century, but theirs isn’t a student body that’s exactly on the up and up with accepting queer kids.

Even Gabriel isn’t open with his sexuality, and he’s had anal sex with other guys before.

Not that being out is contingent upon what type of sex you’ve had and how much of it you’ve had; the point is that Gabriel is unapologetically pansexual and even he’s not stupid enough to let anyone in this school know.

Luckily, Sam doesn’t live too far from school. Castiel has never walked there before, but it’s doable, according to the map on his phone. It’s a nice enough afternoon for February, at least. He plugs in his headphones and takes in a breath at the sweet relief of muted external sound. He switches on his music, sets the GPS on his phone, and strolls off toward the Singer-Winchester residence.

He gets so lost in his music and in the lovely afternoon, that he doesn’t even realize he’s there until his GPS sounds in his ears, _“Your destination is on the right.”_

Castiel finally looks up and sees, yes, he has arrived. Even if he had no idea what the house looked like in the light of day, he would definitely recognize Dean Winchester bent over under the hood of the station wagon.

No.

This is Sam’s brother-- _older_ brother.  

Older, _straight_ brother.

However, as Castiel’s animus reminds him gently, a butt is a butt.

Dean has a very nice butt.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Castiel walks the rest of the way to the car and shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. The less he fidgets around other people, the better.

“Hello, Dean,” he greets and startles Dean right up into the hood, punctuated by a dull metal thud.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Dean grabs the back of his head and turns around, “What kind of shit for brains--oh. Hey, Cas.”

Castiel feels his cheeks get warm again. Dean is beautiful, even when covered in sweat and car grime.

“Sam told me you’d fixed the leak,” he explains. "I'm here for pick-up."

“No, I know,” Dean rubs his sore spot. “Kinda just snuck up on me there.”

“I’ve been told I do that,” Castiel nods and takes another step forward. “My apologies.”

Dean checks his fingers, “It hurt a lot more than… I mean, I’m not bleeding. Rattled some stuff in my brain, though.”

“If you develop psychic abilities, you can always go into detective work,” Castiel suggests.  

Dean smiles, “That’ll kinda conflict with the powers I got from that vat of toxic waste I fell into last week.”

The nerves in his stomach go effervescent as Castiel smiles back and, oh no.

Ohhh _no_.

“Wasn’t anything too serious,” says Dean. “Easy enough job. I looked at some other stuff too, though. When’s the last time you changed your oil?”

“Never?” Castiel shrugs. “I’ve never changed it. My brother probably did when it was his, but… I don’t know.”

Dean whistles, “And your brake pads?”

“My what?”

“Man, do you know anything about cars, like, at all?” Dean asks, a smile still on his face.

“No, I do not,” says Castiel. “My strengths don’t lie in anything that requires attention to automotive or mechanical detail.”

Dean nods, “Duly noted. Listen, she needs a lot of work. I’m willing to do it for you, but I’m not taking money to do it, so I wouldn’t be able to do it during work hours. It’d probably take a while.”

“Oh,” Castiel frowns. “Well, my brother and sister and I all share this car. I’d have to talk to my parents and see if that would be a possibility.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Totally. Um,” he fishes the keys out of his pocket and hands them to Castiel. “Sorry if I acted like a di--jerk last night. It was just surprising.”

Castiel goes red from root to tip, swears he starts steaming where he stands on the street.

“I’m sorry we didn’t check the door,” he manages.

“Regardless, don’t let it keep you from doing, y’know,” Dean shrugs, “Whatever.”

“It didn’t,” Castiel replies frankly. “And it won’t. Thank you very much, Dean. For everything.”

Dean nods, a slight smile still on his face, despite the two-ton anvil of awkward that’s just been dropped on them. He gives him a little wave, “See you around, Cas.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “See you around.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Normally, Sam avoids Friday night social gatherings. It’s not for any particular reason, aside from not being into hanging out with a bunch of people he ultimately doesn’t care for all that much; he just doesn’t see the point. However, after last week’s walk-in incident with Dean, Sam is hesitant to try hooking up with Cas at home again.

Kali Kapoor’s bed, on the other hand? Fair game.

Sam only knows Kali from his AP classes. She’s wicked smart and downright ruthless, and to say Sam is terrified that she’ll gut both him and Cas if she ever finds out about what they’re doing is an outrageous understatement. And it’s not exactly like Cas and Sam can jump apart should someone walk in, as it is very obvious that Sam is currently choking to death on the head of Cas’ cock.

Deciding enough is enough, Cas pulls him off by his hair and forces him to look up.  

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Fine,” Sam rasps around the dull ache in his throat. “You make this look way easier than it is.”

“I’m nowhere near as big as you,” Cas’ breath puffs softly through his kiss-bitten lips.

“That’s such a lie,” Sam swallows back a mouthful of Cas-flavored spit. “You’re huge.”

“You’re very kind, but I am of average size,” Cas insists. “But here,” he goes from gripping Sam’s hair to stroking, his fingertips parting the sweat-darkened roots.

“That’s nice,” Sam sighs into the touch.

“Okay, good,” Cas swallows and sits up. His jeans haven’t made it down past his mid-thighs and only serve to make each move of his body more awkward than normal. It doesn’t stop the soothing drag of his fingers, though, and that’s the most important thing.

“It helps to relax--” Castiel cuts himself off at the look Sam must be giving him. “I apologize. I don’t want to do anything if it’s hurting you. If you want to stop we can go back downstairs.”

“I don’t know anyone here,” Sam says, then snaps back to his moment. “And no, we’re doing this. I’m doing this.”

It’s like Dean says: like anything else, sluttery takes practice.

Wait, ew, why is he thinking about Dean?

“Man, okay… give me a minute,” Sam rests his forehead on Cas’ thigh.

“Sometimes gagging can trigger nausea,” Cas offers.

“It’s not that,” Sam snips back, and then looks up. “I ruined it, didn’t I?”

Cas’ face is neither irate nor relieved.

“Here,” he just shifts back on the bed. “Sit. We’ll do something else.”

As Cas wriggles out of his pants, Sam does the same, and soon they’re both on the bed, legs hooked around one another as Cas wraps Sam’s hand around the both of them.

At Sam’s knitted brow, Castiel explains, “Your hands are bigger, and look,” he points down between them, “So are you. So I don’t want to hear it.”

Not one for Cas’ bossy streak, Sam uses his other hand to flick him on the thigh.

Though, Cas is right.

Sam is bigger.

Oddly enough, hooking up with a guy is the one time he hasn’t felt harassed into defending the size of his dick.

Straight teenage guys are weird.

Sam huffs as they keep shifting angles, but after a moment he falls into it. The feeling of Cas’ erection against his is nice, and the pressure of his hand wrapped around the both of them is really good. It’s hard to keep quiet, especially when he starts to get close and remembers that, right, he can’t stain up the comforter.

It’s Cas who comes first, all over Sam’s hand and their dicks, which sends Sam spiraling not a few moments later. He kind of expects to make more of a mess, but… well, you can’t “come by the bucketful” (another Deanism--lovely) every time, and so Sam chalks it up to his shoddy blowjob work totally throwing him off.

It’s silent between them as they redress themselves.

“Should we go back downstairs?” Castiel asks as soon as he has his jeans zipped back up.

“Nah,” Sam shrugs, and repeats, “I don’t really know anyone down there.”

“Gabriel is down there,” Cas offers. “We know him.”

Sam's muscles go taut around his bones. It’s not enough that he has to see Gabriel during drama club rehearsals and that they’ve met eyes more than once as they’ve built and painted sets together. Now that Gabriel is also Cas’ brother (not that he wasn’t before), Sam has to be hypervigilant about differentiating what his groin tells him to do and what’s actually appropriate.

Which is fine by Sam. Totally cool, as Gabriel happens to be one of the most irritating people he has ever met. Who cares if he’s got bedroom eyes that could lure a nun out of chastity, or that he’s got nice fingers and a great big smile that sends Sam’s guts wriggling. Sam’s better off just doing his thing with Cas--quiet, sarcastic Cas, who is very good at letting Sam be on his own when he doesn’t want to be bothered.

There’s a thud out in the hallway and, because the universe is just the worst sometimes, of course it’s at that moment that the bedroom door blows open, bringing forth none other than Gabriel and Kali. They smell like booze and weed and appear to be adhered at the mouth.

Sam glances at Castiel, who stares at the sight with a surprisingly stoic expression. He looks at Sam, shrugs, and looks back, waiting for the inevitable. Except Gabriel and Kali are so wrapped up in one another that it’s only when they bump against the bed that they realize they’re not alone.

“What the fuck!” Kali gasps, her back now to Gabriel.

“We needed a break from the party,” Sam supplies quickly, realizing that this absolutely cannot look good.

“I’ll bet,” Gabriel wraps his arms around Kali’s waist, only to be rebuffed.

“Get out,” is all she says, then whips around to Gabriel. “All of you.”

“‘the hell did I do?”

“I changed my mind,” Kali snaps. When she doesn’t offer a follow up or explanation, Gabriel throws up his hands and backs away.  

“All right, all right,” he says “I got it, no need to make a federal case out of it. You know where I am if--”

“No,” Kali shakes her head. “No changing my mind this time. I have enough to deal with before graduation without having to babysit you.”

“Babysitting?” Gabriel’s eyebrows go up.

“Get out.”

“Aw, come on,” Gabriel nudges her, which appears to be the wrong move. Gabriel does not heed her body language, though, and continues, “Remember the good times, huh? When we got baked and did it in the back of your dad’s car. We had fun then, right?”

Kali has nothing short of murder in her eyes as she clips, very tightly, “You have ten seconds--”

She doesn’t even finish her warning before Gabriel bolts, shouting his own warning from down the hall, “Run, she’s a fire bug!”

“Oh, really!?” Kali shouts back, darting after him.

“She’ll set you on fire and pretend it was an accident!”

“You’re the moron who decided to light up his bong while I was doing my hair!” Kali screams back, egging Sam and Castiel to follow her out onto the landing. Sam can’t stop himself before he smacks into Castiel, who watches his brother with rapt attention from above.

“Who the fuck uses hairspray anymore?” Gabriel’s voice now sounds from downstairs. “Knock-knock. Who’s there? A gaping hole in the ozone layer!”

“Gabriel,” Kali warns.

“Aerosol-abuser!” Gabriel shouts back.  

“You’re such an asshole!”

“Fur is murder! No blood for oil!”

“Oh, boy,” Castiel pushes past Sam and trods down the stairs. “All right, Gabriel, let’s just get out of here.”

“And you,” Kali points at Castiel. “You’d better hope I don’t find any dried up come crusted on my bed.”

Sam can feel his intestines almost run into his underwear when she looks back at him with a blaze of fury in her eyes, “You too, Winchester.”

Shit. Maybe he would have made the track team last year if he’d had the ire of Kali Kapoor bearing down on him.  Sam almost trips over his feet coming off the last step, and rides the piping hot wave of rage right out the front door.

Once out in the biting January air, against the Milton-Novak family station wagon, Gabriel lets out a loud ‘whoop!’

“I still got game, fellas,” he rubs his hands over his face, his posture more crumpled than his tone would suggest.

“I would hate to see you on one of your off days, if that’s the case,” Castiel comments lightly.

“Better than you on one of your on days, nerd,” Gabriel rights himself and looks directly at Sam. It sends goosebumps running up his arms and all the way up into his scalp. “Though, I gotta say, I dig your taste in fellow nerds.”

“Dude,” Sam hears himself say over the persistent burn in his cheeks.

“Would you mind not hitting on my fuck buddy right in front of me?” Castiel asks.

“Dude!”

“Oh, get over yourself, Sammy,” Gabriel rolls his eyes and grabs a half-smoked joint out of his sweater pocket.  He lights up, takes a drag, and insists on the end of a plume of smoke, “Everyone knows you two are playing hide the hoagie.”

“It’s ‘hide the salami’,” Sam corrects.

“I know that, assdick, but that’s not alliterative and it bothers me,” Gabriel says. Sam can almost hear his talons baring and getting ready for attack

“All right, before everyone is ready to murder you,” Castiel pats the hood of the car. “Sam, do you need a ride?”

“Oh, no,” Sam shakes his head. “I parked down the block.”

“Excellent,” Gabriel exhales another lungful of smoke. “Pip-pip and cheerio, old chum. See your sweet ass on Monday.”

Gabriel slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door, leaving Castiel and Sam staring at each other over the car.

“Is he okay?” Sam asks.

“That’s a very simple question for such a complicated answer,” Castiel sighs. “But yes, he should be fine.”

Sam nods, “Okay, good.”

“I apologize for his inappropriate behavior.”

“Dude, we just fucked around in the valedictorian’s bed,” Sam laughs. “No one’s exactly a saint here.”

“Fair point,” Castiel nods and opens the car door. “Oh also, when you figure out the homework for calculus, let me know,”

“Will do,” Sam stuffs his hands in his pockets, watching as Gabriel makes himself comfy in the front seat.

“And if I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” Cas adds, pulling Sam’s attention back to where it needs to be.

“Cool, man,” he waves. “Be safe.”

Gabriel chooses this moment to press his face to the window and blow a big foggy mess of spit all over the inside.

“That’s nice,” Sam gives him a thumbs up. “Way to be.”

Castiel gives a final shake of his head before he ducks into the drivers seat and starts the car. They’re night and day, he and Gabriel. Sam knows he and Dean aren’t exactly two peas in a pod either, but people at least can tell that they’re brothers.

Sam takes a deep breath and starts the walk back to his car.

Maybe he’ll just stick to Friday nights at home from now on. Bobby may not be the best company, but at least he never set anyone on fire.

… not that Sam knows of, anyway.

The drive back home isn’t too bad; in a way, the silence is actually kind of relaxing after the chaos of tonight. It’s when he parks the car and sees the living room lights peeking through the curtains that Sam knows he’s screwed. He hadn’t told Bobby about going out tonight. At first it had slipped his mind, and when he finally remembered, he was flat on his back with a very insistent Castiel Novak’s tongue in his mouth.

Sam opens and shuts the door as softly as he can, but that’s really not of any use with a guy like Bobby. He doesn’t even have to get up from the couch to set Sam on edge.

“You’re out late,” is all he says, still in his clothes from earlier in the day.

“Yeah, sorry,” Sam toes off his shoes. “Lost track of time.”

“You know I don’t mind you goin’ out and havin’ fun,” says Bobby. “You’re a kid and that’s what you’re supposed to do. I just need a little warning.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam nods, a small heatwave flying under his skin. “It won’t happen again.”

“All right,” Bobby concedes. “Tell your brother you’re all right, though. You didn’t answer your phone and he’s been ready to call out an amber alert since eight o’clock.”

“God, I’m not a little kid!” Sam snaps. “I don’t need to be under constant supervision like Dean did. And I don’t need you two breathing down my neck like a couple of old mother hens.”

Even though he didn’t mean to shout, that’s where Sam ends, his already sore throat now screaming in pain. Bobby finally rises from his spot on the couch and folds his arms over his chest.

“You wanna run that by me again?”

Sam scowls and makes pointed not-eye-contact.

“Sam, no one thinks you’re a little kid,” Bobby says. “But me and your brother are your family, and given what the two of you have been through, yeah, we’re gonna worry.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Sam mutters. “Like I’m gonna get killed and thrown in a ditch or something? If Dean avoided it, I think I’ll be able to.”

“Boy, you’d better quit before you say somethin’ you regret,” Bobby shakes his head. Sam groans but trudges over to the stairs regardless, stopping only when Bobby adds, “You’re takin’ down the Christmas lights tomorrow. Those damn things have been up long enough.”

“What!” Sam whips around. “I can’t, I’ve got stuff to do!”

“You bet your ass you do,” Bobby agrees. “‘cause when you’re up in the attic puttin’ all that shit away, you’re also gonna get that wasps nest outta there.”

“But--!”

At Bobby’s hardened gaze, Sam realizes his is a losing battle. He crumbles and grumbles “Fine” as he stomps up the stairs and slams the door to his room.

Definitely never going out on a Friday night again.

* * *

 

“You know, they’re only supposed to pretend-hurt you, spaz.”

Dean scowls as Charlie’s delighted amusement dances all around the canvas tent. It’s not even noon yet and one of those dickbag mages-in-training ‘accidentally’ hit him with a fire spell. And yes, while the spells themselves are not real, Dean’s surprise was, as was the tree root that he stumbled over, and as is the pain now shooting through his wrist.

“You’re off your game these last few days,” Charlie grabs a frozen sponge pack out of her cooler and hands it to Dean. “What’s going on?”

“Now?” Dean raises his eyebrows. “What about breaking character?”

Charlie ponders this for a moment before replying, “A queen has every right to ask her handmaiden about what’s bothering him.”

Dean sighs and sinks down to the ground, the stiff fabric of his tunic pulling at his elbows. He should get a new one, probably. He got this the very first LARP weekend he ever did with Charlie, nearly five years ago, and apparently his body has decided it needs one final growth spurt before it’s satisfied with itself.

“Oh, Dean,” Charlie shakes her head. “You know if you don’t talk about it now, I’m just going to make you talk about it when we get home, and at least if you tell me here, you can take out your man-pain rage in the tournament later.”

Dean glares at her, but, as always, she makes a fair point. That’s the drawback to living with your nosy best friend. He sighs, but doesn’t even need to say anything before she guesses, “Oh, my god. Is it a guy?”

Damn it.

“Man, don’t,” Dean groans, but it’s no use. Charlie’s a juggernaut of cheer and queer, and it’s as exhausting as it is endearing.

“You have to tell me!” she exclaims. “I want names so I can facebook stalk. Have you seriously been sitting on this all week? When were you going to tell me?”

“Next Wednesday at half-past never,” Dean presses the ice into his wrist.

“What’s wrong with him?” Charlie pries. “He’s not straight, is he?”

“No,” Dean shoots back, though he has no idea what the kid’s orientation is. All Dean knows is that he didn’t appear to suck dick like a straight guy. “And nothing is wrong with him, all right? Nothing.”

“Okay, then what’s wrong with you?” Charlie then poses. “You’re not straight, he’s not straight, and I’m assuming you’re both attractive and interesting--”

“He’s in high school!” Dean shouts, unable to take it anymore. Charlie’s eyes go wide, so Dean figures he might as well just plow through, “He’s in high school, he’s my brother’s lab partner or whatever, and, oh yeah, the guy my brother is currently fucking, thank you very much.”

It’s the first time he’s said it all out loud, and goddamn, it makes him feel even dirtier.

“Whoa,” is all Charlie manages to say. “No wonder you’re throwing yourself around like an insane person.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Dean warns.

“Who am I going to tell, Dean?” Charlie folds her arms over her chest. “Now, be honest: what level of high school are we talking? Is he gross-high school, like he just started sprouting pubes, or is it Glee-high school, where all the actors are in their thirties and playing high schoolers?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dean hangs his head.  He has the worst taste in friends.

“It’s a simple question,” Charlie shrugs.

Dean glares back at her, “You know that it wasn’t.”

Charlie lets out a sigh and braces one hand on the hilt of her sword, “Well, fine then.  If you don’t want to tell me about it then let Moondor does what it’s supposed to take your mind off of everything.”

Ugh, she’s right, Dean knows she is, but he hasn’t been able to get his mind off of Castiel. Every time he thinks about Sam--did he eat before school? Did Bobby make sure to keep the thermostat low so Sam’s nose doesn’t bleed?--Dean thinks about Castiel in between his little brother’s legs, and since he thinks about Sam a lot… yeah, it hasn’t been pleasant.

What the hell else is that damn kid getting up to, exactly? And why does he get to fool around with a guy before Dean does? Dean has been on the fence about his sexuality since he was fifteen and suddenly Sam’s all up on a dude’s dick?

Unfair.

“Dean?”

He looks up to see Charlie and that damned shit-eating grin, and scowls when she sing-songs, “Dean likes a bo-oy.”

“Shut up,” Dean stands, and rolls his eyes at Charlie’s affronted gasp.

“How dare you address your queen in such a way,” she clutches her chest. “Traitor to the crown.”

“Whatever,” Dean mutters, now testing the mobility of his wrist. “You ready to head back out?”

Charlie nods, pointing out, “I’m not the one tripping over my own feet.”

Dean flips her off and follows her back out of the tent. It’s their first weekend back at play after spending so much of their winter entrenched in bitter cold and blankets of snow. The ground is still soggy, and Dean can still smell that last bit of frost in the air, but the sky is bright blue and the sun feels nice on his skin.

Being that it’s the first nice day of the year, there’s more than just the Moondor crowd gumming up the park. The Moondor people know to keep to their area, and most people know better than to cross into it, but every once in a while they get a stranger or two jogging the perimeter of their setup. Even more rare is that someone is so consumed in their exercise that they don’t realize they’re in the middle of an immersive live action role playing game.

And okay, Dean isn’t so hot on math or probability, but he’s pretty sure it’s a fucking statistical anomaly that the handsome jogger who has accidentally found his way into Moondor happens to be one Castiel Novak.

Son of a bitch.

“Dean?”

_Son of a bitch._

“Hey, Cas,” Dean mutters, rosy red creeping up his neck and soaking into the roots of his hair. Make no mistake, Dean takes great pride in his Moondor duds--after many years and arguably too many paychecks, he’s managed to construct a pretty decent costume. He has a chainmail hood, a tunic, some sweet leather bracers, and, if he saves up right, soon he can get some actual armor.

Correction: it’s an awesome costume.

It just figures that Cas would see him in this bulky shit instead of… what, his laundry day jeans or something. The ones that are kind of too tight but get him some epic ass when he wears them.

“I like your chainmail,” Cas says, and Dean only feels his face get redder.

“Uh, thanks,” he replies, because he’s super intelligent and has no problem talking to attractive dudes whatsoever. “I like your…”

Dean scans over Cas’ tennis shoes, sweatpants, and a green hoodie brandished with SUNY ESF across the front. His face is blotched pink from the cold, his lips are chapped, but his eyes are bright and alert and Dean is staring, he knows he’s staring. Quickly, he clears his throat, also now well aware of his gaping idiot friend beside him, and says, “I like your sweats… pants. Your sweatspants. I--yeah.”  

Castiel looks down at himself just as Charlie stares at him.

“Thank you,” Cas says, “They are from Costco.”

“Oh, wow,” Charlie sighs, and snaps Dean back into the park.

“Shit, sorry,” Dean squeezes his eyes shut, “Uh, Charlie, this is Castiel. He goes to school with Sam.”

Charlie’s eyebrows shoot sky high, “Shut up.”

“Is this significant?” asks Castiel.

Dean elbows Charlie in the ribs before she can reply and says, “She’s--no. No, it’s not important.”

“Smooth,” Charlie nods.

“Eat me,” Dean snips back.

“Only if you’re still hungry after you’re done with--”

Dean elbows her before she can finish, because whatever was coming at the end of that sentence was not going to be good.

“I’m Charlie,” she sticks her hand out against Castiel’s chest.

“Hello, Charlie, I’m Castiel,” he introduces himself, very proper in spite of their dress and their surroundings. “And I’m super gay, so. Y’know, nothing romantic happening here whatsoever. That ‘p’ does not pay this ‘v’ any visits whatsoever.”

“Wow,” Dean buries his face in his hands.

Maybe if he tries hard enough he can disappear.

“What is all this?” Castiel decides to ask, rather than run screaming in the opposite direction.

“It’s LARP,” Charlie chirps. “Live action roleplay. This is the kingdom of Moondor, and I am their queen.”

“And are you their king?” Castiel asks Dean.

“He’s my handmaiden,” Charlie supplies before Dean can seize the opportunity.

“Oh,” Castiel nods, “All right. Do you do this often?”

“Once a month,” says Charlie. “Now that it’s getting warmer, at least. We take a hiatus during the winter. Chainmail and armor are pretty cumbersome when you can’t feel your fingers or toes.”

“Understood,” Castiel folds his arms over his chest, as though demonstrating just how chilly it still is.

“I’d say come and join us any time, but,” Charlie very obviously looks at Dean, “You have to be eighteen or over to play in Moondor, no exceptions.”

“I am eighteen, though,” Castiel says, and Dean swears his stomach actually flops down into his butt.

Creep Factor downgraded from ‘What the Fuck are You Doing’ to ‘Tread Lightly, Dickhead’. A minor improvement, but an improvement all the same.  Dean’s throat goes dry as every masturbatory fantasy he’s kept at bay for the last week floods the folds and wrinkles of his brain. Castiel between his legs, his long-fingered hands groping at Dean’s body, touching, tasting--damn it, now’s not the time.

“You should come next month,” Charlie then suggests, and son of a bitch, if it’s not one thing it’s another. And of course Charlie doesn’t stop there, no, she has to go the extra mile with, “Dean will just text you the date when we figure it out.”

Dean wonders if he can kill Charlie out of sheer force of will.

He turns to tell Cas not to worry about it, but Cas already has his phone out of his pocket and in his hand.

“I don’t have my phone on me,” Dean says after he rattles off his number, though he still makes a show of searching around in his outfit’s non-pockets.  “Just shoot me a text and I’ll put you in there when I’m not… yeah.”

He looks down at his outfit and back up to Castiel, whose expression remains unchanged.

“All right,” Castiel decides, “I’ll just be going now.”

“No, yeah, totally,” Dean nods back, “See you later.”

Cas doesn’t even return the sentiment, just gives them a wave and resumes his jog.

“Oh, my god,” Dean puts his face in his hands.

“Yeah buddy, that was…” Charlie hisses through her teeth. “Yeah, that was not great.”

And as if that wasn’t enough, she states, “That was worse than Hot Leia from Comic Con two years ago.”

“I’m so fucked,” Dean groans into his hands.

So, _so_ fucked.

* * *

Castiel walks the last mile home. His phone burns a hole in his pocket the entire way, his heart won’t slow down and his legs won’t stop trembling no matter what he does. Granted, he has been running for a large portion of his morning, but this is a different pulse, a different tremble. Dean is just--how is Castiel supposed to function when not one but two Winchester brothers go around looking as they do?

It’s absolutely not fair.

Once on his porch, Castiel bends down to untie the house key from his shoelace and unlocks the front door. Without a thought, he toes off his shoes and replaces them in a long line of shoes against the wall: sneakers, loafers, boots, all lined up in a neat row. It’s not another moment before the voice of his mother reverberates off of the chalky white walls from upstairs, “What were you thinking!?”

Oh, dear.

Just as Castiel is about to sneak off into the kitchen, he bumps right into Lucifer, whose cereal nearly sloshes right out of his bowl.

“Hey-oh, watch where you’re going, kid.”

Lucifer pushes his glasses up on his face, reassessing who and what’s in front of him, and drops his shoulders. Since graduating from college nearly two years ago, then acquiring and later getting fired from his research job, Lucifer decided to move back home. It’s not exactly ideal, as far as their parents are concerned, but Lucifer’s never given all that much of a hoot about what anyone does or doesn’t consider ideal.

“Good run?” Lucifer asks, like mom isn’t currently in the middle of a tizzy fit upstairs.

“I suppose,” Castiel nods, seeing no reason to disclose what or whom he may have seen while out and about. “Why is she yelling?”

“I don’t know,” Lucifer shrugs. “She’s your mother.”

Castiel sighs and shucks his sweatshirt. After Amy Milton passed away, mom made it her duty to look after care for her four children just as she cared for her own. She taught Anna how to cook, made sure Michael knew how to do his own laundry before he went to college; she all but tied down Lucifer and shoved chicken soup down his gullet every time he came down with a cold, and Gabriel?

“For god’s sake, Gabriel, you could have ended up dead in a ditch!”

“Ma, I can end up dead in a ditch literally every time I walk out of the house!” Gabriel makes the grievous mistake of arguing back.

“Oy, Jesus,” Lucifer shakes his head. “You’re gonna have to excuse the fuck outta me. She already reamed my ass for smelling like pot when I woke up. I can only take so much.”

He takes the few strides across the living room to the open basement door, slips inside and slams it shut.

“Oh, don’t you start in with me too, Lucifer!” mom shouts down the stairs. “Don’t think I don’t know who gave him all that alcohol.”

“Mom, he’s not up here anymore,” Castiel calls back up the stairs.

“Then who’s slamming doors!?”

“He went into the basement,” Castiel says, still with every intention of going into the kitchen for water.

“Who?”

“Lucifer!” Castiel hears Gabriel shout back.

“Don’t you open a mouth to me, young man!”

Yeah, Castiel may just join Lucifer down in the basement if this is how everything is going to be today.

He decides to leave his mom and Gabriel to whatever it is they’re getting into now and follows his thirst into the kitchen. Gray slate and white tile line the countertops and floors respectively, all glowing bright in the cool light of the sun that pours in through the bay window. At the island counter, Hannah sits with a mug of coffee, a slice of peanut butter toast, and a thick textbook splayed open in front of her.

“Good morning,” he greets.

“Hello,” she hums back. “I see you made it through last night unscathed.”

Castiel grabs a cup from above the toaster and fills it to the brim at the tap. He can see Hannah watching him out of the corner of his eye as he tips his head back and swallows every last drop.

“Did you have a good time with Sam?” she asks as soon as Castiel sets the glass on the counter.

He squints back at her, “Why?”

“Because you’re my brother and I’m genuinely interested,” Hannah’s eyebrows crunch together.

“You’re never interested in my sex life,” Castiel points out, and rightfully so. Castiel would share anything with Hannah, and she knows that, so she makes it a point not to ask questions she doesn’t want the answers to.

“I’m not asking for a detailed account,” says Hannah. “You’ve just been seeing him for a while. I’m curious.”

“We are not ‘seeing’ one another,” Castiel argues. “We are simply in an arrangement wherein we engage in sexual activity because we are the only queer-and-questioning guys that we know. They don’t exactly grow on trees around here.”

From the look on Hannah’s face, Castiel can only surmise that she’s picturing a tree overrun with men fellating other men.

“Never mind,” Castiel sighs.

“Never mind what?” mom asks, choosing that exact moment to crash the conversation. Hannah and Castiel both fall silent.

In all honesty, mom probably wouldn’t care that Castiel is fooling around with Sam. She’s met Sam and likes Sam, and while Naomi Novak may be a little rigid, she isn’t the type of woman who would disown her only flesh-and-blood son for what he gets up to with his lab partner in his spare time.

That being said, there’s no guarantee she would take it in stride, either.

“Nothing,” Castiel shakes his head, and offers the simplest explanation he can with, “School.”

It’s not convincing, but it does what it’s supposed to and keeps mom from asking anything else.

“And what are you up to today, Hannah?” she asks instead.

“Reading,” Hannah turns her attention back to her book, “Bathing in the blood of my enemies, possibly. It’s early; I have time to decide.”

Mom clucks her tongue and shakes her head, “That is no attitude for a young woman to have.”

“And yet I have it,” Hannah says, now lightly sipping at her coffee.

Mom sighs and crosses her arms over her chest, “Is that the way you want Aaron Bass to see you tonight?”

Hannah’s coffee immediately spills out of her mouth and back into her mug.

“Mom!”

“His mother and I saw one another at the grocery store the other day,” she explains as she grabs a few paper towels to mop up the mess. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Not set me up on a date with him?” Hannah’s eyes go big. “Mom, I told you I didn’t want to go out with him.”

“Well, why not?” mom gestures. “He’s young, he’s cute, he’s transferring to a four-year college next fall…”

“Which one?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t listening,” mom waves him off, turning back to Hannah. “Honey, for me?”

“No!” Hannah exclaims.

“He’s a fine boy,” mom tries to argue.

“I don’t care,” Hannah enunciates. “I do not want to go out with him, or anybody, for that matter.”

“How are you supposed to meet anyone with that kind of attitude?” mom poses, which leads to Castiel’s favorite answer:

“Hopefully never!”

Hannah slams her book shut and lugs it with her out of the kitchen. Castiel can hear her stomp up every individual step and the subsequent slam of her bedroom door upstairs.

“What did I say?” mom asks, and Castiel rolls his eyes.

“She doesn’t want to date anyone, mom,” he explains. “Even Aaron.”

Who is, Castiel must admit, not so bad-looking himself.

“Between you focusing on your studies and your sister the ice queen, when are you two going to settle down?” mom asks.

“We’re eighteen,” says Castiel. “Barring tragedy, I think we have time to ‘settle down’.”

“Castiel, it’s different for women,” she lays a hand on his bicep. “You? You’ll be able to have babies up until the day you die. Women only have a very small window--”

“Wait, this is about grandchildren?” asks Castiel. “Mom, Michael just had a baby two months ago, why are you bothering Hannah about it now?”

Not that Hannah wants anything to do with anything going into or emerging from her vagina, but they can only present so much information to their mother at once if they expect her to actually process it.

“I’m just looking out for you two,” mom says then. “It’s my job.”

Castiel keeps his eyes from rolling back into his skull, but with great difficulty.

“I have homework to do,” he simply says and takes his leave. He isn’t well-equipped enough to argue with his mother right now, and without arguing back she’ll just make him feel bad, and the last thing he needs is to do his calculus homework with his neck stretched out under the menacing guillotine of guilt.

Back in his room, Castiel sheds the rest of his clothes and wraps a towel around his waist. He sends a quick text to Sam, asking if he’d like to come over and work on their calculus homework together, and sets the phone on his dresser. However, just as he’s about to hop in the shower down the hall, his phone buzzes insistently atop the weathered dark wood.

It’s a message, but not from Sam.

It reads, _‘ok added you in my phone nerd’_ , with another following quickly after, _‘this is dean btw’._

Castiel’s heart rate picks up again and he swallows hard.

 _‘Did you just call me a nerd?’_ he texts back.

Too soon, the reply comes, _‘yah youre my nerd brothers lab partner from his nerd class’_

_‘Indeed. And you are aware that I saw you all dressed up with a wooden sword earlier today, are you not?’_

A pause, and then, _‘shut up’._

Castiel smiles, _‘Or what, you’ll give me a splinter?’_

_‘eat me ya little shit’_

Castiel fingers are poised for a rather inappropriate message back, only before he can type, Sam responds:

_‘On lockdown for the weekend. I guess even alcoholics don’t like when you stay out past curfew. Talk to you later?’_

Right.

This is the Winchester he’s supposed to be dealing with.

His stomach sinks as he types back, ‘ _Okay_ ’ and replaces the phone on his dresser.

* * *

 

Luckily, being grounded in the Milton-Novak household means nothing now that Lucifer is home. Lucifer is twenty-three, and twenty-three means he can buy booze for his poor, underage brother who was effectively locked in the house all weekend.

This also means, however, that he was up until ass o’clock this morning, yacking up his guts into the downstairs toilet because he was too drunk to make it up the stairs. Lucifer had to drag him back down to the basement, where Gabriel slept off his inebriation on Lucifer’s futon for a couple of hours. And, of course, the basement is basically an ice cave on Hoth, so when he woke, Gabriel not only couldn’t feel his toes, but had a gallon of frozen snot in his face and throat too.

Not to mention the fact that, y’know, he woke up having to go to high school on a Monday morning.

After a D on his German test and a flat-out flunk on his Algebra test, Gabriel didn’t really end the school day with high hopes. His fingers twitched and lungs itched all day for some sort of chemical relief, but Lucifer’s stash is running thin and he doesn’t have the money to pay his dealer for anything close to what he’d need right now.

Needless to say, not even the promise of seeing Sam Winchester’s glorious man-mane is enough to bring him out of his utter upset at having to end this fuck-all of a day with drama club rehearsal.

“Gabriel!”

There’s the familiar feeling of his sister’s fist colliding with his shoulder, which jolts him out of his near-nap and back into the auditorium. Hannah stands over him, poised to strike again if he doesn’t respond.

“I’m up, I’m up, fuck,” Gabriel rubs his face, nowhere near as tender as it was this morning, thankfully. “‘the hell’s the fire?”

“There is no fire,” Hannah frowns. “You can’t sleep in rehearsal; you have to help.”

“Yeah, fine,” Gabriel rubs his eyes. “What’re my marching orders, o captain my captain?”

“I have two options for you--”

“Hooray…”

“Either go shopping for props, or help Lily take measurements for costumes,” Hannah ticks off on her fingers.

Gabriel sits up, “Is that a joke? Make the effort to go somewhere or feel up the cast?”

“You are not allowed to sexually assault the cast of this production,” Hannah rolls her eyes. “I feel like I shouldn’t have to say that.”

“Regardless,” Gabriel settles back into his seat.

“Fine,” Hannah shrugs. “I’ll tell Sam to just go on his own.”

“Now, wait a second,” Gabriel snags her sweater sleeve between his fingers. “That’s an interesting wrinkle you’ve added, my dear.”

“In what way?” Hannah asks.

“You didn’t tell me I’d be going with Sam,” Gabriel stands. “Props, man. I’ll go do props.”

“Why?” Hannah’s face screws up. “You’re not going to grill him about his sex life with Castiel, are you?”

“What?” Gabriel draws back. “Hell no, I don’t want to know what the hell they get up to.”

Hannah continues to be puzzled for the next few seconds before her eyes go wide and she squares her shoulders.

“Gabriel, no,” she orders, only to have Gabriel grab her by the shoulders and declare, “Gabriel, yes!”

“What is wrong with you!” she bats his hands away. “He’s seeing Castiel right now.”

“Well, not right now.”

“Shut up!” Hannah socks him again. “What part of your brain makes you think that’s okay?”

“The part that likes tall boys with broad shoulders,” Gabriel winks at her and hops over the seat in front of him, running down by the stage to where Sam and Mr. Shurley go over a list.

“Hey-oh, Sammy boy,” Gabriel claps him on the shoulder. “I hear I’m prop hunting with you today.”

Sam’s muscles tense under his palm, and Gabriel immediately draws back.

Shit, he doesn’t want to make the guy uncomfortable. He knows he can be a lot to handle.

“Or I can go help Lily,” he says.

“The hell you will,” Lily snips from up on the stage, like Gabriel actually wanted to spend his afternoon with a tape measure and an ornery lesbian.

“No, that’s a good idea,” says Mr. Shurley, finally looking up from his clipboard. “Take Gabriel with you; you guys’ll get everything done twice as fast.”

“Seriously?” Sam huffs a laugh. “Have you met him?”

“Oh, like you’re such a fucking prize,” Gabriel rolls his eyes, and pointedly ignores Mr. Shurley when he clears his throat. Whatever, he’s eighteen. He’ll toss around expletives wherever, whenever.

“Look, I’ll even let you guys go home after you’re done,” Mr. Shurley offers. “You don’t have to bring the props to me until tomorrow morning.”

“Hey, now there’s the incentive I’ve been looking for,” Gabriel slugs Sam on the bicep. “Lookie how easy that was.”

Fucking fuck. He cannot really be this much of a dipshit, can he?

Oh, who is he kidding. Of course he can be.

“Fine,” Sam finally sighs, and takes the list from Mr. Shurley with way more attitude than is necessary. Gabriel doesn’t look to Mr. Shurley for any answers, just follows Sam back up into the auditorium seats.

“Hey,” he says as Sam shoves his books back into his bag, “I don’t have to go with you. It’s cool.”

“Dude, just get your crap and let’s go,” Sam grumbles.

Gabriel’s gut coils as a surge of nerves chill his skin. He swallows back the smartass reply on his tongue and does just as Sam says. There’s little to no good that comes from arguing with someone in a foul mood, he’s found.

This doesn’t stop Hannah from issuing her own warning, “Don’t do anything irresponsible.”

“Oh, come on,” Gabriel looks at her, “Would you tell a bird not to fly?”

“Gabriel,” she warns, but despite what everyone might believe, Gabriel doesn’t actually need to be warned not to do anything stupid. People think he can’t hear that little voice in his head, when really he’s perfectly aware of what it’s saying--he just doesn’t listen to everything it has to say.

A selective conscience, Lucifer likes to call it.

“I’ll see you at home, Mistress of the Dork,” Gabriel gives her a little salute and trods out of the auditorium right behind Sam.

It’s not a long walk to Sam’s car, but the silence stuffs up the air between them and settles down in Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel’s family is big and loud and the only time there’s quiet is when he’s asleep. His tongue licks at the back of his teeth, itching to fold around a stream of words. Only problem is, he doesn’t know what those words are going to be, and Gabriel is more than adept at saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“Dude, what?” Sam snaps at him, and Gabriel shakes himself out of his head.

“Holy shit, what the hell is your problem?” he asks back.

“You’re staring at me,” says Sam.

“Well, can you blame me?” Gabriel bounces his eyebrows, only to realize a second too late that he is not helping himself.

Things don’t get better in the car.

Sam’s iPod plays a miserable symphony of indie rock that makes Gabriel long for the upbeat cadence of his pop station. The longer Sam drives, however, the calmer he seems to get. They still don’t speak, but Gabriel at least no longer feels like Sam is about to stab him in the face.

Their first stop is the Goodwill a few miles from the school. Gabriel passes it every day, but he’s never been inside. The air is stale with the smell of unscented laundry detergent and what’s certainly pounds upon pounds of skin cells that have embedded themselves into the carpet and walls of the building.

“Okay,” Sam pulls Mr. Shurley’s list from his pocket. “Knick-knacks and stuff are in the back over there. We need to find some baskets and--hello? Are you with me?”

Gabriel pulls his gaze from where it had settled on a bug-eyed man hanging out by the shoe rack.

“Hell of an ensemble in here, eh?” he asks, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Well, fine,” Gabriel mutters to himself and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Sam seems to take little interest in Gabriel, which Gabriel prefers if the guy is gonna be a total dick this whole time. Little bits and baubles catch Gabriel’s eye, including a set of absolutely heinous salt and pepper shakers, including a pair of ceramic chimps that are made to look like they’re smooching. While Sam crouches to scan the bottom shelf, Gabriel grabs the shakers and places them on either of Sam’s shoulders.

“Got a monkey on your back there, son?” he asks, and chuckles when Sam swats him away. “C’mon, that was funny.”

Sam glances up at him, despite being ridiculously tall even resting back on his haunches, and gives him this look that Gabriel knows all too well. Instantly he backs off, a stupid grin on his face, and makes himself useful elsewhere.

He scans the racks for something, anything he can use, and settles on a muumuu he finds. Garish in its rainbow sherbet color palate, it’s just what he needs. Gabriel looks over one shoulder, then the other, before he tugs the frock over his head.

A few more minutes of attention-grabbing perusing and Gabriel adds a wicker hat and a technicolor scarf to his ensemble.

He’s ready.

The man by the shoe rack turns his buggy eyes on Gabriel as he walks by, to which Gabriel replies with a wink and a toss of his hair. A woman tugs her child closer to her as he passes, and Gabriel gives her a nod and a, “Hey, how you doin’?”

Unsurprisingly, she does not answer.

Back in the aisle of knick-knacks, Sam has a wicker basket under his arm and, not a prop, but a cookie jar in the shape of a horrifying caricature of a… cat? Yeah, it has to be a cat. There’s nothing else it could be.  

“I don’t know about you,” Gabriel bagins, only half meaning to startle Sam as badly as he does, “But I’d sooner take a cookie from Satan than from that thing.”

The words fall on deaf ears. Sam’s big puppy dog eyes bulge out of his head as he takes in the sight before him.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he asks.

“Oh, this ol’ thing?” Gabriel looks down and smooths the starchy fabric over his hips. “Just somethin’ I had lyin’ around, on a count’a I do entertain the occasional gentleman caller.”

He tosses one end of the scarf over his shoulder, which ends up smacking Sam in the chest.

Just as Gabriel suspected, the smile Sam has been trying to keep to himself finally breaks out across his face.

“That is… a special outfit,” Sam concedes.

“Hey, you’re the one holding the ceramic demon cat,” Gabriel points out. “Let’s not point fingers about who’s weirder than who and just accept that we’re both out of our fuckin’ skulls insane.”

Sam laughs.

It’s a nice laugh, too. Or, nice in that it’s genuine. It’s actually a pretty dorky laugh that scrunches up his face and takes all the breath out of his chest.

“Aw, a dorky laugh for a dorky guy,” Gabriel pats him on the shoulder. “So cute.”

Sam sobers at that and shakes off the excess laughter, turning then to continue with their quest.

“You’re gonna walk around all day like that?” asks Sam.

“Stretch, I’d wear this home if I didn’t know I’d get my ass handed to me on a silver platter,” Gabriel replies. He does remove the hat, but otherwise continues exploring the store with Sam.

After a while, Sam asks, “Do your parents care that much?”

Oh hey, an actual conversation.

“Eh, philosophically probably not,” Gabriel shrugs. “But because it’s me, they’ll kvetch and kvetch until I just throw myself in front of a train or something.”

He realizes this was quite possibly too much information when Sam’s face falls, and he amends, “Then again, it could be the tacky muumuu that sets them over the edge more than the fact that I’m being a total putz.”

When Sam doesn’t respond to this, Gabriel clears his throat and pulls the frock back up and over his head. Were he the type of person who was susceptible to shame, it’s likely that his cheeks would be beet red right now.

As it stands, he’s stuck between cracking wise and… oy, he doesn’t have a whole lot of other go-tos, does he.

“Man, parents blow,” Sam ends up saying. “Who cares if dudes wear dresses?”

“It’s not so much my dude-ness as my me-ness,” Gabriel explains. “But I appreciate the effort. Ten points to…” He glances over, and Sam smiles.

“Slytherin.”

“You saucy minx,” Gabriel grins. “I knew I liked you.”  

Sam rolls his eyes, still smiling, but doesn’t mention the exchange again.

“So,” Gabriel snatches the list out of Sam’s hand. “Still got a bee in your bonnet?”

Sam wilts, a heavy sigh in his throat as he murmurs, “It’s nothing. Just off, I guess.”

“Bullshit,” Gabriel shoots back. “Tell me, don’t tell me, whatever. Don’t delude yourself into thinking there’s nothing wrong. That’s how you get into deep shit.”

Sam’s nose twitches, his eyebrows pinch, and he pointedly keeps his eyes off of Gabriel as he explains, “I got busted for being out on Friday. I was grounded all weekend and I’m just pissed about it still.”

This, Gabriel determines, is also a big pile of bullshit, but he decides not to call him on it for now. For now, he thinks Sam could do with something else. Gabriel does a quick surveillance of the area and spots a figurine on the shelf to his right. He grabs it and presents it to Sam.

“Do you ever see some shit and just wonder,” Gabriel turns it over in his fingers, “Why?”

Sam looks at the figurine in question--an old woman bedecked with, presumably, her grandchildren, reading to them from a chipped ceramic book-- and then returns his attention to Gabriel.

“I mean it,” Gabriel continues, “What the hell is the thought process behind this?”

Sam’s smile returns, dimmer this time, but definitely there. He looks to his right and pulls down another figurine: a single brass cowboy boot.

“How ‘bout this?” he asks.

“Ridiculous,” Gabriel confirms, and feels that dangerous fluttering in his stomach when Sam’s smile broadens to show his teeth. He starts to wonder what would happen if he just pulled Sam in and laid a big ol’ smooch on his face.

That’s dangerous territory, and it’s too late to pretend that he hasn’t been staring at Sam’s mouth for the last fifteen seconds. He snaps himself out of his trance and replaces his figurine.

“All right,” he claps his hands together. “Let’s demolish the rest of this list.”

Sam nods and sets down his little brass boot.

Gabriel starts down the aisle, but doesn’t get two steps past Sam before he hears, “Thanks, man. I needed that.”

It’s not a vicious make-out in the middle of a Goodwill, but.

It’ll do.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to issue a **warning** before we start: Castiel collects animal specimens. While they're not described in immense detail, I just want to make sure anyone who is squicked by that knows. It comes at the end (but not very end) of the chapter.

Sam wakes in a cold sweat for the third morning in a row. There’s no air in his chest, and for a terrifying moment he can’t tell what’s of his conscious or unconscious mind. 

A breath in, a breath out.

Another in

Hold it

He holds it in until his vision starts to swim and his head feels like it might explode, and lets it out. 

Even though he submitted his financial aid information almost a week early, his mind decided it would be fun to concoct a scenario wherein the internet glitched, the information was never received, and he had to come back and live with dad. 

Ugh, he was living with dad in that dream. 

No wonder there are tears on his cheeks. 

Sam rolls out of bed and dries his face on the bottom of his t-shirt before he starts getting ready for the coming school day. Even though it’s Friday, Sam’s pretty sure he won’t be doing anything after school but coming home and pulling out his hair one strand by one strand as he tries to wade through his math homework. 

Fuck math. 

“What’s eatin’ you?” 

Sam comes back to himself and finds that he has managed to get all the way downstairs and to his box of knock-off Raisin Bran. Bobby sits at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the paper, an innocuous detail from his everyday life that slows his heart rate, slows his mind. 

Sam lets out a breath and shakes his head, “Nothing really. Just slept weird, I guess.” 

Bobby makes a grunt of acknowledgement but doesn’t press the issue. It’s somewhere between dad outright ignoring him and Dean fracking for information, and demands about as much information as Sam is willing to give. 

Sam shovels cereal into his mouth, gulps down a cup of coffee (which is  not stunting his growth, by the way, so that myth can go to hell), and drives to school. Part of him tells him not to go, to ditch and start his weekend early. Maybe go see a movie or play video games with Charlie at her and Dean’s place. 

He’s in the school parking lot before he can get up the guts to go anywhere else. 

He thuds his forehead against the steering wheel. 

Deep breath in, and right back out. 

Today is going to happen either way, so he may as well just get it over with. He steels himself, grabs his crap and heads into the school building with barely any time to spare before the warning bell rings. 

As it turns out, it didn’t make one lick of difference that he decided to come to school today, because that’s all he is: at school. He’s a body his teachers can tick off on their roll sheets, a body that can be pushed and pulled through every hoop that they can bring out. He doesn’t engage. There’s no paddling or rowing, just him riding the current with an ache in his chest that leaves him feeling hollow. 

He’s so far gone that when Castiel decides to eat his lunch with him, he can only nod through whatever conversations they end up having. Sam’s not really sure--all he knows is that Castiel puts his calculus book in front of his face and keeps talking and talking. 

They finish eating and checking their work early enough that they can sneak out of the cafeteria to suck face under the bleachers. That pulls him out of his funk more than anything, to be perfectly honest. The lingering buzz on his lips and scrape of teeth on his clavicle is a happiness-hormone cocktail, one that pushes him through the rest of his day and quiets his desire to flush his own head down the toilet. 

So, naturally, when play rehearsal rolls around, Sam ends up painting sets with Gabriel. 

Again. 

“ Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna fool arou-oo-hoooooound”

Sam looks up from his wet paint, across the set piece to Gabriel, who bobs his head while he sings to himself. 

“What the hell is that?"

"What the hell is what?" Gabriel asks back, because  he knows exactly what , the little prick. 

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" 

Gabriel’s grin sends a flash of fury streaking through Sam, but he takes a breath, steadies himself, and goes back to painting. Gabriel, being the shithead that he is, starts to hum something else. It’s quiet enough that Sam can pretend it’s not happening.

At first.

It just gets louder and louder, until he busts out,  “Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand!” 

“Oh, my god,” Sam startles as Gabriel brings his brush up to his mouth to sing.

“Just like that river twisting through the dusty land!’ 

“Gabriel!” 

“And when she shines she really shows you all she can! Oh Rio, Rio dance across the Rio Gr--”

A heavy sponge splatters wet, deep forest green all across Gabriel’s face--the same shade of green that’s all over Sam’s right hand. 

Gabriel’s eyes meet his.

“Oh really, motherfucker?”

“Crap, I’m so sor--”

Predictably, Sam cannot finish before he gets a faceful of tree-trunk brown in retaliation. 

Without another thought, Sam dunks his hand into his paint can and throws what he can back. However, this time Gabriel doesn’t go for the paint. He goes for the nasty paint water and chucks it, sending it streaking over both himself, Sam, and their freshly-painted section of forest. Red pulses behind Sam’s eyes, every single instinct he has telling him to leap across the stretch of scenery and pummel the crap out of this little weasel. 

But before he can do that, he feels a set of hands pulling him back and holding him steady. He tries to get away, but he can’t, which means Ash must be the one doing the detaining. As his clarity of vision returns, he can see Gabriel has also been subdued, by none other than Hannah. 

She is taller than him, after all. 

Sam smirks. 

“What the hell are you laughing at, Mongo?” Gabriel spits back. 

“Enough!” Mr. Shurley shouts, and Sam immediately bites his lips shut. Everyone in the auditorium goes dead silent, watching, waiting. 

Having just used up his entire year’s-worth of aggression, Mr. Shurley looks at the ruined set piece, then at Sam and Gabriel. With his eyes sunken and his shoulders rounded, he asks, “What the  hell are you two doing?” 

“He st--”

“Sam,” Mr. Shurley puts up a hand. “If you tell me he started it, I’ll slam you with a week of detention, do not even test me.” 

“But he--!”

“Sam!” 

Sam deflates and leans back, so Ash can hear him say, “Well, he  did .” 

“Clean this up,” Mr. Shurley says. “Only the two of you. And you’re staying until this entire piece is re-painted.” 

Sam groans as Gabriel whips his arm out of Hannah’s grasp and mutters, “ Super .” 

“First, wash yourselves off,” Mr. Shurley eyes them both. “You’re doing a once over of the whole room before you leave. There’d better not be any paint in here tomorrow.” 

“What about the paint in the cans?” 

“Gabriel,” he warns, and Gabriel’s shoulders curl in on themselves. 

“Mr. Shurley, we can’t do this whole thing again by ourselves,” Sam tries to argue. “It’s gonna take hours.” 

Mr. Shurley looks over at him and nods, “Yeah. Was it worth acting like feral chimpanzees for thirty seconds?” 

“Feral chimpanzees?” Gabriel mutters at the exact moment that Sam’s eyebrows furrow. 

Finally, Sam snatches his arms away from Ash and stalks off the stage. He makes a beeline for the bathroom outside the auditorium, not looking at anyone on the way as he rips his sweater off his shoulders.

Under the fluorescent light, Sam’s skin goes white under the gobs of brown paint. He looks like something out of a horror movie when he sees himself in the mirror. Man, it’s all in his hair, too? Son of a bitch… 

Sam pries the squeaky sink to life and sops up the water with a handful of paper towels. He wipes his skin clean without a problem, but in this lack of light it’s hard to tell if he’s getting rid of it or scrubbing it into his hair. 

There’s only one way to solve this. He sighs and flips his hair forward, then makes the treacherous descent as he attempts to get all of his hair under the faucet. 

The door opens, and not a breath later, “Target practice? In here? Sammy, you saucy minx.” 

“Fuck  off , Gabriel,” Sam gripes as best as he can while twisted into this unholy spine bending pretzel. 

He can’t see Gabriel, but Sam knows he’s stopped to look at himself in the mirror because he remarks, “I gotta hand it to you, this shade really just makes the ol’ peepers pop.” 

Sam sighs and finishes washing out his hair, and maybe purposely shakes it dry as soon as Gabriel is in range. 

“Aw, what the fuck, Clifford the Big Red Dick?!” Gabriel thuds his fist into Sam’s back.  

Sam snorts, “Don’t bring my big red dick into this.” 

Oh… that was probably not the thing to say. When he glances over, Gabriel stares right back into him, and he swallows hard. 

“Sorry.” 

“Oh yeah?” Gabriel cranks on his sink. “For what, planting pictures of your dick in my brain or painting me up like the whore of Babylon?” 

“Dude, you started it and you know it,” Sam scowls as Gabriel wipes his face clean. 

“Ah yes,” Gabriel nods, “The old  ‘let ye without sin cast the first sponge’ .” 

Sam rolls his eyes and mutters, “Whatever.” 

“Man, what’s your issue today?” Gabriel asks. 

“Nothing,” Sam crosses his arms, but does not go back to the auditorium like he thinks he probably should. Gabriel glances over at him and, shit, he must look like a total idiot. 

"Never mind," Sam shakes it off. "I'll see you back in--"

Gabriel's fingers snag his sleeve and pull him back before he can even turn to leave. He still has green smudges on his face, and streaks in his hair, but he looks into Sam like there’s no other place he could be right now. 

Sam wets his lips. 

"Shit," Gabriel releases Sam's sweater. "Y'know, I know I'm a big mouth and everything, but. If something is bugging you, I can keep the ol' trap shut long enough to give the ears a nice workout."

Sam huffs a smile and hangs his head, "Nah, it's lame."

Gabriel keeps staring, so Sam falters, "Look, I didn't sleep well, all right?"

Gabriel's hawk eyes dig into him, pinning him to the spot. It’s too much, and Sam caves. 

"I dreamt my money for college didn't come through," he says, embarrassment staining his cheeks. "It scared me." 

There’s a moment before Gabriel nods back,"No kidding. That’d scare the shit outta me too.” 

Sam looks up at him again. He hasn't moved since he snagged Sam’s sweater, not even enough to start cleaning his face. Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s just because everything has been building up and it has to come out. 

Whatever it is, there's something that compels Sam to continue, "I don't even know if I'm gonna get into any good schools, but everyone keeps telling me not to worry. People are just like, ' oh, you're so smart don't worry about it ' but I'm not." 

After a moment of waiting for Sam to continue, Gabriel asks, "Not worrying?" 

"No, not smart," Sam rolls his eyes. 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, "You're not?"

"No!” Sam exclaims, slapping his palm against the empty paper towel dispenser. "I bust my ass for my grades, man, and everyone thinks I just breeze through everything because I’m ‘ the smart one ’.”

“The smart what?” 

“Between me and my brother,” Sam kicks at a puddle of dirty water on the chipped tile floor. “I’m good in school but who says that’s enough, you know? My brother is smart. Like, actually smart. And nobody thinks so because he dropped out of school and started working for our uncle, but he  is , and then they look at me and they’re like, ‘ oh he’s getting good grades he must be a fucking genius ’.  For god’s sake, people think I like math." 

"And you... Don't?"

"Fuck math!” Sam exclaims. "And fuck everything else! You know what I do every night? I stare at my books ‘til my eyes cross, and when  that happens I have to put on a pair of glasses--yeah, glasses, like I'm an old man--and try to work out shit that people like Ash and Kali do in their fucking heads.” 

Gabriel blinks, but makes no move to say anything. 

"And then there's all those SAT tests and ACTs and waiting to see if busting my ass is even going to pay off and I'm at the end of my fucking rope here and nobody seems to care because I'm me and I've got my whole life ahead of me and just-- fuck .”

Sam hides his face in his hands and takes a breath, “But what’s the alternative, y’know? Stay at home, work at my uncle’s garage with my brother and rot here? Fuck that. ” 

Sam finally runs out of steam and takes a rest back against the wall. 

“Man… that sucks,” says Gabriel. 

Sam looks up from the dirty, cracked tile on the floor. Gabriel has started to clean himself up, moving from the paint on his skin to the paint in his hair.

"Yeah," Sam finally nods. "It does."

“Not to parrot every other fuck in your life,” Gabriel continues, “But I think you’re gonna be all right too. Not because you’re smart, or not smart, or whatever. You’re determined. If you’re working this hard to get the hell out of here, you’re gonna work hard enough to do anything you wanna do. Brains are only half of it, y’know? History’s full of half-wits who succeeded because they wanted it bad enough.” 

Sam lets out a breath. Oddly enough, that’s the most comforting thing he’s heard in recent memory, and it came from a guy who can’t get a few splashes of paint out of his hair.

“Here,” Sam grabs a paper towel and wets it. He runs his fingers over the biggest splat of paint, already starting to congeal around the fine threads of Gabriel’s hair. Sam pats softly, taking out as much paint as he can with as much care as possible. 

And Gabriel just stares at him as he works. His body heat soaks through Sam’s clothes and settles warm on his arms and chest. Sam can feel his heart start to pound in his chest, in a way that he can’t quite explain outside of ‘ his lips look like they feel nice ’. 

But then Gabriel pulls away and Sam comes back to himself. Right. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

“About?” 

“This,” Sam holds up the wad of wet towels. “And, um. Dumping all that on you.”

“We’re good, man,” Gabriel smiles back. “Coulda done without the facial, but whatever. Water under the bridge.” 

The unholy image of Gabriel’s face all pink and streaked with come creeps up in his mind. How would those eyes look between Sam’s legs, boring into him, smiling his Cheshire Cat smile under while he licks himself clean. 

Sam clears his throat. 

“We could get back,” he says. 

“Mmhmm,” Gabriel bounces his eyebrows. 

“Shut up.” 

“Whatever you say, stretch,” Gabriel winks back, and strides out of the bathroom before Sam can tell him to fuck off. 

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s mouth floods at the smell of garlic butter and tangy tomato sauce. This place isn’t the nicest in terms of aesthetics, but their pizza melts on your tongue and there are arcade games in the back. 

Not exactly what one would think of at the words ‘first date’, but Castiel and Sam are hardly the typical pair. 

Castiel is still stunned that Sam agreed. In fact, he’s still stunned that he even got up the guts to ask in the first place. They’d been sitting together at lunch, going over their calculus homework, and Castiel had caught sight of a couple of freshmen canoodling at the table next to theirs. There hadn’t been much more thought behind it than that, but he and Sam have been fooling around long enough and like each other well enough that they should give dating a shot, right?

Coming back to Castiel’s surprise when Sam gave him a,  ‘yeah man, sounds fun’.

Castiel takes a booth right by the pick-up counter, in line of sight of the front door, and pulls out his phone to text Sam a simple,  ‘I’m here. Got a table.’ His stomach enters into emotional freefall as he waits a few moments for Sam to text back. Only, when a few minutes pass with no response, Castiel remembers, right, Sam is probably driving still, and turns his phone face down on the table. 

He waits. 

…. and waits. 

Aaaaaand waits some more. 

Castiel watches his phone as the minutes tick by, debating whether or not he should just text Lucifer to come back and pick him up. He assumed Sam would be able to drive him back home after they had finished for the night, but that plan was kind of contingent upon Sam showing up in the first place. 

From six o’clock until nearly quarter past seven, Castiel drains a metric ton of sugar in the form of root beer and breadsticks, all while reassuring the waitress that, “It’ll just be a few more minutes.” 

Except it can’t be much longer, because after that much soda Castiel has never had to pee so badly in his life. After declaring that he is not dining and dashing, he nearly bowls over his waitress in his mad dash to the restroom. 

What follows is the most profound sense of relief he’s ever felt, and it’s come to him in the form of urinating in a public restroom. 

He lets out a breath and rests his forehead against the cool tile above the urinal. Though he’s done and has since tucked himself back into and zipped up his pants, he is alone in this room and right now he just needs to have this. 

He’s been stood up. 

And it’s not by a stranger or acquaintance, but by a friend. 

There’s a faint ache of disappointment in his stomach, which while unpleasant is nothing compared to the iron vice that takes hold of his heart not three seconds later. Did Sam just not want to hurt his feelings? Or maybe he found something else to do, something better than eating pizza and seeing a movie with Castiel. It’s probably not all that difficult to find something more fun than that, than him. 

Castiel pushes away from the wall and douses his hands in the hottest water that will come out of the sink faucet, scrubbing and scrubbing until the skin on the back of his hands is tender and pink. 

He looks at himself in the mirror, right in the eye, and tells his reflection, “You will be okay.” 

A deep breath and he’s ready to go back to his table, order himself a slice of pizza, and hope nobody notices him eating by himself. 

“Castiel?” 

His heart leaps (so Sam  didn’t blow him off), but when he turns that is not who he finds. 

Dean, in a set of dirty coveralls, stands in line at the to-go counter with a smile on his face and a his phone in his hand. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets. 

“How’s it going, man?” Dean asks. 

How does he explain the situation without offending the brother of the person who most definitely stood him up?

“Pizza,” is apparently how.

“Fair enough,” Dean nods. “Well, get to it man, don’t let me keep you.” 

“Oh, I’m not--” Castiel shakes his head. “I was just here to get the take-out... too.”

“Oh,” Dean smiles, like he knows it’s not quite the truth. “I’m pickin’ up something for Sammy. I guess he got in trouble and had to stay late at rehearsal.” 

Well, that explains that, at least. 

“You wanna eat together?” 

Castiel’s heart--his poor heart--goes from caving in on itself to so full it’s about to burst. 

Considering that it’s either that or spend the night smoking weed in the basement with Lucifer and Gabriel, trying to forget this whole failed experiment. Dean may be grungy at the present moment, but he’s proven himself to be good company so far--better company than Castiel’s own brothers, at any rate. 

“I would like that,” Castiel nods. 

When they get to the front of the line, Castiel’s waitress is the person behind the register. 

“Ah, Mr. A&W,” she greets. “You did have someone coming after all.”

“Dude, were you waiting on a date?” Dean asks. 

“Yeah, I,” Castiel looks pointedly away from Dean and the waitress. Even if he doesn’t finish explaining himself, it appears that both Dean and the waitress just know. 

“Why don’t you just get us a large,” Dean turns to Castiel, “what do you want?” 

“Oh,” Castiel frowns. “I’m not a picky eater. Get whatever you want.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms, giving Castiel a pointed look. 

Sam would have already put in an order for his veggie deluxe pizza; Dean seems content to wait through the end of the century for Castiel to answer him. 

“I like meat,” he finds himself saying, only to realize a beat later how horribly that could be misconstrued. “What I mean is--”

“A large meat supreme and whatever’s on his tab,” says Dean as he grabs his wallet out of his pocket. 

“Dean, you don’t have to do that,” Castiel sighs as the waitress swipes Dean’s card through the reader. 

“There’s only so many things in this world I gotta do, Cas,” Dean replies. “Gotta get my jollies doin’ stuff for other people.” 

The waitress hands Dean his card and a receipt, “You’re order number fifty-three.” 

Even if Lucifer and Michael were here dangling him upside down from the roof (which they  have done before, thank you very much), Castiel doesn’t think he would break this silence. He roots himself on one of the chairs by the counter and stares at the mounds of sawdust on the concrete floor. 

“My brother blow you off?”

Castiel looks up at Dean, who stands with his thick arms folded over his chest and a steely, stoic expression on his face. 

“He did,” Castiel nods. 

“Man, that blows,” Dean sighs, and Castiel frowns. 

“I thought you were picking up food for him,” he says. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean takes the seat beside Castiel. “He’s got all that extra time he saved by not telling you where he was gonna be, so I figure he can use that to get his own food.” 

Castiel cocks his head, wondering if the new angle will help him decipher just what’s going on in Dean’s head. It doesn’t, but Dean is nice to look at so he lingers a little bit longer than he probably should. 

At least Dean doesn’t seem to notice. 

“So, you and Sam are dating?” is the next question to puncture the air between them. 

Castiel swallows, “I don’t believe so, no. I thought it might be a good idea to give it a try, but after tonight I can’t help but think he does not feel the same way.”

“Wow,” Dean leans forward, his elbows on his thighs. “That really sucks.” 

“We don’t need to discuss it,” says Castiel. “I know Sam is your brother and this is an awkward and tricky subject--”

“Dude,” Dean laughs. “Yeah, he’s my brother, but he’s a total bonehead, like every other seventeen year old on the planet.” 

Castiel smiles. 

“He’s not, usually,” he points out. 

“Yeah, but that’s kind of a thing with being a human being, y’know?” Dean sits back up, only to lean back. “Doesn’t matter how great you are, you’re gonna slip up and do some shitty things sometimes. Gotta forgive yourself and trust the people worth stickin’ around will forgive you too.” 

Castiel nods, “Surprisingly sagely advice. Does it work?” 

“Wouldn’t know,” Dean shakes his head. “Never done it before.” 

“Oh,” Castiel looks down at his hands. There are still happy faces drawn on the pads of his fingers from when he was bored this morning in AP economics. They’re faint after washing them throughout the day, but still there. 

“Ah, it’s no big deal,” Dean shrugs. “If I wasn’t chasin’ my own tail for every shitty thing I’ve ever done, I’d have nothing to do. So much time to be self-deprecating without any deprecating to do, I’d go insane. I hate downtime.” 

Despite himself, Castiel chuckles. 

“There he is,” Dean nudges him. “Look, I know my brother pulled a douche move, but if you don’t mind hangin’ with a grease monkey, I got nothin’ to do tonight but eat pizza and kill a six-pack.” 

“You really want to hang out with me?” Castiel asks. 

“Yeah, why not?” Dean gives him a smile. “You’re cool, I’m cool. Got a pretty cool night ahead of us, the way I see it.”

Castiel’s cheeks heat up again. 

“Order fifty-three!” 

“All right,” Dean claps his hands together. “Let’s get this show on the road. Pizza and beer.” 

Castiel is charged with the very important task of looking after the pizza while Dean stops in at a liquor store for his aforementioned six-pack. Dean’s car is just as he’s heard Sam describe it--sleek black and impeccably kept. He’s hesitant to touch anything, lest he grease up the interior with pizza fingers. Even though Dean seems to have faith in him, Sam has told horror stories of the people who have dared bring harm to this car. 

It’s best to be overly-respectful, Castiel thinks. 

Dean’s apartment building isn’t anything one would write home about. It’s a beige box with slightly darker beige shingles bedecking the roof, and it’s not much better inside. The grayish brown carpet and white-white walls tell no stories, have no soul. It’s not an uncommon design scheme (or lack thereof), but it doesn’t suit Dean at all. 

Even his door is bland. 

It makes the rainbow flag just in the entryway all the more jarring. 

“Um,” Castiel blinks. “What?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Dean smiles. “Charlie likes everyone to know what we’re all about.” 

“Who enters my abode?” sounds Charlie’s voice from over by the TV. 

“Shut up,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I got pizza.” 

“You may enter,” she bids, and Castiel follows Dean inside. 

The walls are completely papered in posters, from every bit of nerderia Castiel knows. Action figures line all available surfaces, in and out of box, and though there is stimuli everywhere, none of it looks out of place. It’s chaos, but controlled chaos.

This suits Dean.  

Charlie is on top of the pizza as soon as Dean sets it down, stuffing nearly half a slice down her gullet before she even realizes that Castiel is right next to her. 

“Hey, Cas,” she smacks through a full mouth. 

“Jesus,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Will you please eat like you’ve seen food before?” 

“I forgot to eat today,” she explains, then turns back to Castiel, “Fancy seeing you here. What brings you out this evening?” 

“I found him hangin’ at the pizza place,” Dean supplies before Castiel can say anything.

Charlie frowns and turns to Castiel, “He didn’t abduct you, did he?” 

“ Dude ,” Dean snips under his breath. Charlie only makes a face back at him, still with pizza on her tongue. 

“I was alone,” Castiel shoves his hands in his sweater pockets. 

“That doesn’t help my case,” Dean groans and grabs his own slice of pizza. He then pops one of the cans of Budweiser off of its plastic rings and hands it over to Castiel. “You drink?”

“I’m eighteen,” Castiel reminds them. 

Dean just shrugs, “Doesn’t mean you don’t drink. Hell, I’ve been drinking since I was fourteen.” 

Castiel takes the can, still icy to the touch, and pops the tab. Perhaps to illustrate a point, he seems to think it’s necessary to chug half of the can in one go. 

“Right on,” Dean nods. 

“Jeez, get a room,” Charlie grabs a beer from Dean, another slice of pizza, and heads back over to the couch. “I’m gonna finish this episode of Buffy, then we can start.” 

“Start what?” asks Castiel. 

“Ah,” Dean smiles that little half smile again, “New Year’s Resolution, I guess? We both decided we were gonna get through every movie on AFI’s Top 100 Movies way back when, but we kept flaking out.  We’ve actually gotten through a lot so far, though.”

“Tonight we’re doing Wizard of Oz and The Graduate,” Charlie says. “So, y’know. Strap in, because Dean is afraid of the Wicked Witch of the West.” 

Castiel starts to laugh as Dean declares, “She’s fucking terrifying, you dick!” 

“You know she’s not real, right?” Castiel smirks back. 

“Fuck you,” Dean points at him, then to Charlie, “And fuck you too!” 

“I just want him to be prepared,” Charlie shrugs. “In case you have to leave the room all of a sudden because you peed your pants.” 

“Gulch turns into the witch  right in front of us ,” Dean enunciates, like this will help his case. 

“Well, if it’s that frightening you can always hold a grown-up’s hand,” Castiel points out. 

Except this prompts Dean to look back at him, his eyes combing Castiel’s frame, and ask, “You offering, buddy?” 

Castiel shrugs and takes his free hand out of his pocket, palm up. 

“Whatever,” Dean mutters. “You two are assholes.” 

Castiel grins so broadly that his cheeks begin to hurt, and lets out a short laugh when Dean slaps a slice of pizza into his ready and willing hand. 

 

* * *

 

There are many types of intelligence. Some people have spatial intelligence, some have verbal intelligence; some have logical, some kinesthetic, some natural or musical, all in what could be endless combinations. Whatever sort of twine twisted up in his brain and gave him perfect pitch and an inner metronome bypassed connecting in the attention span and reasoning departments and wound up climbing the walls of his brain’s Red Light District.

Gabriel has the impeccably accurate ability to tell when somebody wants to fuck him, and Sam Winchester?

Sam Winchester wants to fuck the ever-loving daylight out of him. 

Not that he’s subtle about it. One minute he’s slinging paint, the next he’s staring at Gabriel like they’re going to get down on the dirty floor of a school bathroom. Any seeing person with half a wit about them would come to this conclusion if they’d witnessed the events from earlier this afternoon. 

A paint fight followed by an afternoon of righteous eye-fucking, and now they’re alone in the auditorium, back to the set piece they’d come so close to ruining not a few hours before. 

Needless to say, it’s got Gabriel’s blood buzzing in his veins. 

“Gabriel?”

“Yes, my child,” Gabriel bids calmly as he smears his paint brush up and down the vast tree trunk. 

“Thanks,” is not what he expects Sam to say, but that’s exactly what hits Gabriel’s ears, in Sam’s exact timbre and cadence. 

Gabriel looks up and feels his eyebrows furrow, “You’re welcome?” 

“Nah, just,” Sam smiles, “I meant for listening to me earlier.”

“Oh,” Gabriel nods. “Yeah, no sweat.” 

“You’re a good listener,” Sam continues. 

“Jeez,” Gabriel feels the weevils under his skin start to crawl. “You really know how to flatter a girl.”  

“I’m serious,” Sam’s grin spreads and burrows right into Gabriel’s chest cavity. “It made me feel a lot better, so thank you.”

“Not the way I usually make people feel better, but I’ll take it, I guess,” Gabriel swallows back the knot of nerves in his throat. Christ, when did those get there? One second he’s got Sam Winchester’s dick on the brain, the next he’s flushed like a virgin on prom night. 

“Is that something you wanna do?” asks Sam. “Be a therapist?” 

“Shit, no,” Gabriel’s nerves bust out a laugh that is  way too loud. “I pity the poor fuck who comes to me when their life’s a shambles.” 

He catches Sam’s eye across the long wooden set piece and realizes, “Oh, right. Sorry.” 

“What do you wanna do?” Sam asks. It’s nothing like when mom or Lucifer or Michael asks, or when teachers and other adults ask. There’s no accusation to it, just a set of puppy dog eyes and a genial smile. 

“Uh,” Gabriel lets out a breath. “I don’t really know.” 

“Are you gonna go to college after we graduate?” Sam prompts, only to be met with a snort. 

“If I want to get fucked into thirty thousand dollars of debt, I’m paying for high-end hookers and booze,” he says, then considers, “Vegas. Maybe I’ll go to Vegas.” 

Sam laughs, “So you’re not gonna hang around here?”

“Hell no,” Gabriel shakes his head. “As soon as I can, I’m out of here.”

“And that’s it?” Sam asks. 

“More or less,” Gabriel nods and looks back down at their section of forest. 

“No other plan?” 

Gabriel shakes his head and pulls his knees up to his chest, “Not really a planner.” 

“No kidding.”

“Did I ask you?” Gabriel sticks out his tongue. “Man, I don’t know. I don’t like anything enough to do it.” 

“Neither do I,” Sam says. “I guess that’s what college is for, though. And whatever’s next for you will be the same thing.”

“Yeah, we’ll see if I ever get off my parents’ basement couch,” Gabriel snorts. 

“You will,” Sam states. 

“Did your crystal ball tell you that?” Gabriel asks. 

“No, you did,” Sam’s lips twitch into a smile. “If you’re determined, you’ll do it.”  

Silence rings in Gabriel’s ears. His throat closes up and his eyes start to sting, and oh fuck, he knows what’s coming next and that’s  not happening right now. Before he can get all worked up he shoots to his feet and clears his throat. 

“Think we’re done?” 

“I thought we were done like two hours ago,” Sam’s half smile lingers on his lips, “but yeah, it looks good now. I think Mr. Shurley will be okay with it on Monday.”

“Excellent,” Gabriel salutes. He gathers the brushes and the sponges while Sam seals up the paint cans. Brushes are a pain in the ass to clean all the way, but the alternative is having Hannah bitch him out for ruining them, and nobody needs that. 

By the time he’s done washing and left the brushes to dry, Sam has put everything else away and plopped down on the stage with his and Gabriel’s stuff, waiting. 

“What time is it?” Gabriel asks. 

Sam checks his watch (yes, his  watch , fucking nerd) and reports, “Almost seven.”

“Marvelous,” Gabriel claps his hands together. Sam’s eyebrows knit together, so Gabriel asks, “Wanna smoke a joint and go trip preteens at the mall?” 

When Sam laughs, it’s enough to make Gabriel actually consider following through with his suggestion. 

“You smoke?” Gabriel asks as he retrieves a joint from his pocket. 

“Dude!” Sam sits upright. “You--how are you walking around with weed in your pocket?” 

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, “Um, easily. That’s the nice thing about no one giving a shit about who you are--no one’s ever keeping an eye on you or what’s in your pockets.” 

He places the joint behind his ear for safe keeping and holds out a hand to help Sam up off the floor, only to realize that Sam probably doesn’t need help up. 

But Sam takes his hand anyway. 

It’s warm--not just where their palms touch, but now all over. It spreads up his arm and into his chest, his head, down his guts and groin and right into his roots. But Sam is on his feet now and he really does tower over Gabriel, doesn’t he? 

Sam won’t stop staring. It’d be unsettling if Gabriel didn’t realize he must be doing the exact same thing. Sam’s hands are back on him, just like they were in the bathroom, gingerly planted on either side of his head. 

Suddenly there’s Sam’s mouth on his and, holy fuck, Gabriel might just have a stroke right here. Every bell in his brain goes off--every fire engine, ambulance, and police car he’s got up there all rush around, herding innocents to safety before the tidal wave hits and Sam pulls away, huffing softly against the spit drying on Gabriel’s lips. 

Before Sam can explain or whatever it is he looks like he’s trying to cook up, Gabriel loops his arms around Sam’s neck and pulls him back in. Those big warm hands land on his hips, way too close to the danger zone, but rather than back off and get to a more appropriate place, Gabriel shifts to get as close to Sam as he possibly can. 

Luckily, Sam’s got half a lick more sense than him and puts a hair’s breadth of space between them. 

“We should get… somewhere that’s not here.” 

“Yes, we should,” Gabriel nods. He goes from his normal ten steps ahead of himself to tripping over his own shoelaces. Right now, there’s no train of thought that goes past Sam Winchester and whether or not he’s willing to let Gabriel touch his dick.

“Do you, um,” Sam swallows. “D’you need a ride home?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel nods. He nearly gets whiplash, Sam pulls him away so fast. In fact, Gabriel is pretty sure they’re outright running once they get to the parking lot. Sam’s is one of the only vehicles left in the lot, and it’s one Gabriel in no way minds being pinned against, as long as Sam’s the one pinning him. 

It’s a good thing Sam’s got him steady, too, because the way he kisses takes the breath out of Gabriel’s chest. Fuck the joint behind his ear--this is a high all on its own. 

Sam wrenches the door open and bids, “In.” 

Thankfully, this is a truck with a bench seat, and Gabriel is able to easily slide over to the passenger’s side. It’s only then that he realizes just how obviously hard he is. He reaches down to give himself a squeeze, just a quick fix before he can get home and jerk off, but Sam catches him and gives him this  look . His eyes are almost black, his whole face is pink, and he’s got as much of a hard-on as Gabriel does. 

He looks Sam in the eye and grins, “Need a hand?” 

Sam shudders as Gabriel slides up against him, breath hitching when Gabriel’s lips land just at his earlobe. He whimpers when Gabriel asks, “Maybe you need a mouth?” 

Okay, maybe he’s kind of a slut, but so what? So was Marilyn Monroe, and everybody loves her. 

Sam guides one of Gabriel’s hands to what Gabriel can now feel is his irresponsibly large dick. 

“Holy shit, Sam,” he marvels as he starts to undo his fly. 

“What?” Sam tenses, so Gabriel pauses to kiss him. 

“Good ‘holy shit’, kid,” he says and slips his hand down into Sam’s boxers. He nearly chokes when he pulls Sam’s cock out of its confines, gagging before he can even get his mouth around it. 

“What?” Sam pants again. “What’s wrong?”

“I feel like one of those pornsite sidebar ads just came to life in my hand,” Gabriel says, then pauses. “That came out wrong.” 

“Come jokes later, please,” Sam’s voice gets lost on his own breath, so desperate that Gabriel gives in and starts to move his hand.  

He doesn’t dare reiterate it out loud, but  holy shit . Every part of Sam’s body responds to the stimulation. His muscles twitch, his eyes scrunch, his hips tilt upward to meet Gabriel’s hand halfway. 

God, this guy is gorgeous. 

It’s quick work, but damn is it nice work. Sam’s wound up even tighter than Gabriel thought, given the way his body bows into its orgasm. The poor kid shoots like his come had no idea there was an exit route. It paints up Sam’s sweater and Gabriel’s hand with piping hot sticky white. 

He’s in the middle of sucking the web of his hand clean when Sam finally comes back to himself enough to scrunch his face and ask, “Are you eating my come?” 

“Yeah,” Gabriel nods, swiping up the last little bit on his tongue. 

“Why?” 

“‘cause I like it,” Gabriel shrugs and plunges forward to kiss Sam again. He makes sure Sam gets a taste of himself before he pulls away and grins, “And because I like doing that.” 

“God, you’re weird,” Sam shakes his head. Before Gabriel can take offense, Sam’s mouth is back on his. He appears to be a little unpracticed at kissing while his hands work Gabriel’s dick out of his pants, but that’s all right. 

It’s an acquired skill, and Gabriel is an excellent tutor. 

But then Sam takes Gabriel in his hand and his bravado withers. He whimpers as Sam pushes his thumb through the bead of precome forming in his slit. Man, Gabriel did not realize just how hard he was until Sam started to touch him. It’s the whole thing: it’s how Sam talks and carries himself, how mild he is day-to-day against how fucking hot he is now, biting a hickey into Gabriel’s neck as his hand flies--hell, it’s even him licking Sam’s come off his hand--every last thing today went right to his dick. 

Slut, with a capital H-O-E-B-A-G.

Gabriel’s orgasm doesn’t have the level of showmanship that Sam’s did, but it does have him holding Sam tight and groaning all sorts of obscenities into his neck. He makes less of a mess on their clothes, but coats Sam’s fist. 

“Shit, sorry about that, stretch,” Gabriel laughs, delirious as he watches Sam look curiously at his hand. 

He swipes his tongue over the back of his knuckles, licking a thick trail clean. He pauses, rolling his tongue around his mouth before he decides it’s worth another try. 

This time, he looks Gabriel right in the eye as his tongue drags over his skin again. 

“God, you’re killin’ me,” Gabriel stretches languidly. Sam meets him in a kiss and plunges his tongue into his mouth. 

No lie, Sam makes him taste pretty decent. 

They pull apart to catch their breath, nuzzling and kissing one another’s necks and jaws as they slide back down to baseline. 

Gabriel knows he’s there when he thuds his head back against the seat and declares, “well, fuck.” 

 

* * *

 

Castiel fell asleep on Dean halfway through High Noon and hasn’t moved since. 

With the credits rolling and the Mystery Machine alarm clock by the TV reading 9:58, Dean looks over at Charlie and mouths, “ What do I do?”

Charlie makes an obscene hand gesture that has Dean socking her on the arm, the movement of which is enough to rouse Cas from his place on Dean’s shoulder. He rubs his eyes, looks at both Dean and Charlie and greets, “Hello.” 

“Hey,” Dean smiles back, “Sleep all right?” Already he misses that faint smell of chlorine in Cas’ hair and his warm weight against him. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas stifles a yawn. “That wasn’t a criticism of the film, I’ve just been up since dawn.” 

“That’s just gross,” Dean says, sending Charlie’s eyes on a rolling frenzy. “You’re welcome to crash here if you want. Or I’ll take you home.”

“I should go home,” Cas stretches his arms high above his head, giving both Dean and Charlie a glimpse of his flat, tanned belly. “I’m sure I have a thousand missed messages from my mother.” 

Dean frowns, “Really?” 

“Never separate a Jewish mother from her son,” Cas shakes his head. “I’m sure I’ll be fifty and she’ll still call me every day to make sure I got home safely.” 

“Sounds like she could do with a Weasley clock,” Charlie nods. Dean doesn’t know why he puts his face in his hands, because he was thinking the same thing, but there’s something in Charlie’s delivery that’s just--is she embarrassing him on purpose? And why is he embarrassed to begin with? 

“Well, grab your stuff,” Dean says. 

“I didn’t have any stuff,” Cas reminds him, and Dean’s whole face lights on fire. 

“Right.” 

He pointedly ignores the look on Charlie’s face as he stands and grabs his boots from the floor. 

“It was nice seeing you again, Castiel,” Charlie beams. “I’d say you have a standing invitation to join us for movie night whenever you like.” 

Cas smiles, “Thank you Charlie, that’s very kind.” 

Dean doesn’t have the head to tell him that she’s just a righteous dick who will do anything to ensure Dean is as annoyed as possible. 

The drive back to Cas’ house is silent save for his directions here and there.  That’s probably best, since Dean is walking a tightrope of keeping his cool and making a total dick out of himself. He commends himself for getting to Cas’ house without incident and figures he’s in the clear as soon as he pulls to a stop outside the house. 

Dead grass carpets the front end of the property, which also sports a barren tree and a couple of decorative rocks. Dean is sure it’s a vision of perfection come summertime, but in the dark tail-end of winter it’s intensely bleak. 

“Would you like to come in?” asks Cas (out of left fuckin’ field, Dean might add), and gives a smile for good measure. 

Dean swallows, and before he can think better of it, replies, “Sure.” 

Cas’ eyes light up. He nearly trips over his feet as he and Dean walk up to the front door. Cas unlocks the door with clumsy fingers and the two of them slip inside as quietly as possible. 

“So, this is where I live,” Cas gestures to the high-ceilinged entryway they stand in. He puts his keys on their hook by the door and heads into what Dean now sees is the living room. There are two people on the couch: a blonde guy with glasses and Cas’ female doppleganger. 

“This is my brother and sister, Hannah and Lucifer,” Cas explains as Hannah and Lucifer both look over toward them. 

“Hey, little brother,” Lucifer greets. “And little brother’s symmetrically-faced friend.” 

“This is Dean,” Cas tells them. “He’s my friend Sam’s brother. I was just showing him around.” 

This appears to be of more significance to Hannah than it is to Lucifer. 

“Fun times,” Lucifer nods. “We were gonna watch Breaking Bad, but Gabriel sacked out as soon as he got home. Hence, the Planet Earth.”

Lucifer gestures to the blue oceanscape on the TV screen. 

“Well, don’t let us stop you,” Cas says and tugs Dean along toward the stairs. 

It’s always strange, being in houses like these. He and Sam had a house like this once--he more than Sam, really--with clean floors and knick-knacks and pictures lining the walls. Sam was only a baby when mom died, and barely up and walking when the bank foreclosed on their house. 

Dean drives around the only real home they ever had. At least, it was their only home before Bobby’s. There’s no room for pictures like this on his baby’s inside walls. Here, however? Here, senior portraits line the wall beside the stairs, each meticulously hung at its own corresponding step. 

Dean whistles, “Damn, six of you?” 

“Oh,” Castiel turns, as though he’d never thought to stop and consider them. “Yes. That’s Gabriel at the bottom there, then me and Hannah, and then you have Anna, Lucifer, and Michael.”

“Wait,” Dean holds up a finger. “Your sisters are Anna and Hannah?” 

“Well, not on purpose,” Cas says. “My father passed away shortly after Hannah and I were born. A few years later, my mom fell in love with a widower who had recently been left with four children of his own. When he got offered a job teaching at USD, we moved here.”

“From where?” Dean asks. 

Cas gives him a long hard look and makes him promise, “You can’t laugh.” 

“I won’t.” 

Cas glances around before he leans in and says, “Brooklyn.” 

“Hah!” Dean ejects before he can stop himself. “No, not a bad thing. It’s just not something you hear every day, y’know?”

“Believe me, I know,” Cas rolls his eyes and continues to usher him up the stairs. 

“When did you move here?” Dean wonders aloud. 

“When I was seven,” Cas replies and stops a few steps up on the landing. On the wall is a large cluster of photos, all with one similar theme. “This is our Bar and Bat Mitzvah Wall of Shame.” 

A wall of shame indeed. All six of the prim and polished high school seniors from the stairs are chubby-cheeked, pizza-faced, nervous wrecks. 

The picture on the top left catches Dean’s eye, and he grins, “Is that you?” 

He indicates a pair of little kids with matching dark hair and stoic expressions.

“Yes,” Cas says. “Me and Hannah. That was Michael’s Bar Mitzvah, a little while after our parents got married.” 

Everyone grows older before Dean’s eyes. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d suspect that Cas is just as much of a tight-ass as his younger self portrays. It’s the same expression Michael has too, with dark hair and rich gold skin similar to Cas’ own coloring. Dean actually would have thought that Michael was of the same genetic parentage as Cas and Hannah, since Lucifer, Gabriel, and Anna are all much fairer. 

“It’s like the Brady Bunch but real,” says Dean. “And Jewish.”

“So very Jewish,” Cas agrees. 

Sandwiched down between Gabriel’s and Hannah’s pictures is Cas’. Dean takes it off the wall for a closer look. Zits pepper Cas’ face, and he doesn’t look the least bit comfortable in his swarm of adolescent siblings, but he’s smiling. 

“You did not have braces,” Dean chuckles. 

“I did,” Cas moves a little closer into Dean’s space, presumably to get a good look at the picture too. “I had really bad teeth. Hence, why I avoided smiling at all costs.”

“Yeah,” the back of Dean’s neck flushes at the whiff of Cas’ shampoo again.  Get it together, Winchester . “I mean, was gonna say, you look pretty horn-- ornery .” 

Cas catches his eye and holds it. Okay, so he definitely heard that. Great. 

“You know, if you put the picture back, I’ll show you my room,” Cas says. 

Yeah, Cas definitely catches how fast Dean puts the picture back on the wall. Cas’ room is at the end of the hallway, but his excitement dwindles the second he opens up the door. 

“Shit,” Cas mutters. “Shit, hang on.” 

“The hell?” Dean sticks out an arm to keep the door from closing. 

“No, wait!” Cas tries, but it’s too late. 

Dean is in his room.

Colorful tubing lines the walls, criss-crossing and loopdeelooping intricately, precisely. It’s then that Dean realizes what they are. 

They’re hamster tubes. 

“No way,” Dean marvels. They go all the way around the room, and appear to be quaking as Dean takes them in. “Aw, man, did I make ‘em run?” Dean stands up on his tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the little critters. When he turns back to ask where they went, he sees Cas holding a jar full of--

“What the hell is that?” Dean asks. Cas tries like hell to stuff it in his sweater, or at the very least obstruct Dean’s view, but Dean has already seen too much. 

“I--” Cas sighs and looks down at the jar cradled in his arms. Another sigh and he holds it up, “It’s a fetal sheep, okay?” 

Sure as shit, right there in the jar is what Dean supposes is a sheep fetus. 

“Her name is Linda.” 

Dean looks from the jar up to Cas’ face. He looks like he’s expecting a nuclear explosion, but instead he just gets Dean asking, “Linda?” 

Cas opens his eyes and looks back down at the jar. 

“Yes, Linda,” he affirms. “She looked like a Linda.” 

“Fair enough,” Dean nods. “Do you--why do you have a sheep fetus?” 

“Because I wanted one,” Cas holds the jar closer to his chest. “I may collect… things.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows, “What kinda things?” 

At first, Cas doesn’t move. He doesn’t even look at Dean, just stares at Linda like they’re stuck in silent, heated conversation. They must finally come to an agreement, because Cas shoves the jar into a clean spot on the dresser and opens up his closet door. 

Well. 

Dean must not be getting an explanation, then. He looks back up at the tubing around the room, watching section after section as its occupants scuttle their way through. 

“How many hamsters you got?” Dean asks. 

“Just two,” Cas replies and pokes his head out of the closet. “Hamilton and Sterling.” 

“Christ,” Dean laughs. “Sounds like the name of a law firm.” 

“Hamilton and Sterling,” Cas says it again, smiling. 

“Attorneys at paw,” Dean finishes, already kicking himself before he’s even done saying the whole thing. 

But Cas’ smile gets bigger. 

Dean tries to ‘pfft’ it away, because if Cas thinks he’s the dope for laughing at such a dopey thing, maybe he won’t think Dean is that much of a dope himself. 

Dope-dope-dope. Too many dopes. 

Fuck, how nice would a bong rip and a bag of chips be right now? Anything to keep Dean from making a moron out of himself nonstop. 

The panicky thoughts quiet when Cas thuds down a small bag on his bed. It looks like something a doctor in a Looney Tunes cartoon might carry, but much older and way more beat up. 

“I’m not sure when this was made, or if it has any value,” Cas explains. “I saw it at a garage sale and bought it.” 

A quick few flicks of the latches and he opens the bag, but won’t let Dean look inside. He instead reaches in and instructs Dean to hold out his hand. Then he places something right into the center of Dean’s palm. 

“Jesus!” Dean jumps. It’s not a fetal goat or a stuffed bat or anything, but an  eye . 

“It’s glass,” says Cas. “I have a few, but that one is my favorite. Apparently it belonged to a stockbroker in New York in 1873.” 

“I--” Dean frowns. “How could you possibly know that?” 

“I don’t,” Castiel shrugs. “That’s what the website said. Regardless, it’s a glass eye, and how many people with two working eyes can boast owning one of those?” 

“Hey, no complaints from me,” Dean says, and, for good measure, caps his index finger with the prosthetic. He turns and tells Cas, “You got your eye on me, eh?” 

Cas looks up and shakes his head, but there’s a smile on his face and a glint in his eyes that make Dean’s chest all light and airy. 

“All right, are you ready for something even cooler?” Cas asks, his voice taking on a heretofore uncharacteristic tone. Understandable, Dean decides, when he sees what Cas is holding. “It’s a slice of human brain preserved in lucite. Lucifer gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday.”

“Holy shit,” Dean takes a step forward, his hands already reaching out for something he’s not even sure Cas will let him hold. “Dude, that’s fuckin’ awesome!”

“Right?” Cas blurts. He handles it so carefully, even though Dean’s pretty sure that stuff doesn’t break too easily. 

“Can I see it?” Dean asks before he realizes that Cas probably doesn’t want to hand it over. And Cas does look down at the brain, his fingers do twitch across its smooth surface, but after another moment he decides, “Okay.” 

The thing is even cooler up close. It looks like someone chopped a cauliflower in half, but all pinkish yellow-gray instead of white, with dark dots where the blood vessels ran through the matter. 

“Only Lucifer, Hannah, and Gabriel know about my collection,” Cas explains. 

“How long have you been collecting?” Dean asks, and Cas holds up a finger as he sifts through the bag. 

“I bought this when I was thirteen,” Cas pulls out a small cardboard box and opens it for Dean to see. “It’s a duckling--or, was a duckling.” 

He takes the fluffy little guy out of its box so Dean can get a better look. Indeed, it’s a little duckling, looking as chipper and happy as you would expect out of a baby anything. 

“We were visiting family back east,” says Cas. “I was walking down the street with my mom and Hannah, and I saw him sitting in the window of this strange shop. We must’ve passed by it a hundred times when we were still living there, but I only ever noticed it because of him.”

It’s just a little duckling, cute as can be. Dean doesn’t know whether he’d have stopped for that or not, but he could certainly see why someone might.  

“Hannah distracted our mom while I went in and bought it,” Cas smiles vaguely. “Mom didn’t find it until we were packing to go back home. I thought she threw it away, but Lucifer dug it out of the trash for me. I’ve had to hide him ever since.” 

“Does he have a name?” Dean asks and swears he sees Cas go bright red. 

“Unfortunately, I named him when I was thirteen,” Cas says. “B.P.: before puberty.” 

“What’s his name, Cas?” Dean grins. 

Cas sighs and looks up at the ceiling, “Lord Mallard, the Duck of Quackington.”

“Ho-ly shit,” Dean laughs. 

“He prefers ‘Quacky’ or, as Gabriel calls him, ‘ Quack Attack ’,” Cas shakes his head and takes Quacky back from Dean. He packs up his bag once again, even though Dean wants to see more of what he has.

He’s only brought out of the moment by his phone buzzing in his pocket, and he checks the time on Cas’ bedside clock. 

“Shit,” he sighs. “It’s getting late and I work in the morning.” 

“On a Saturday?” Cas asks. 

“The rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, man,” Dean shrugs. “I didn’t ask for the glory.”  

“Shut up,” Cas smiles and pushes Dean back out his door and down the hall. They blow through the living room, past Hannah and Lucifer again, and stop in the entryway. 

“Thank you for tonight, Dean,” Cas says, and even though Dean kind of can’t stop looking at his lips still believes, “I had a lot of fun spending time with you.” 

“Like I said: two cool guys makes for a pretty cool night,” Dean bounces on the balls of his feet, hoping Cas isn’t thinking what Dean is thinking. He almost thinks he is, when Cas comes forward to close the distance between them, but.

It’s a hug. 

It’s a hug that has more than pizza and beer and movie night in it, but not so much that Dean feels he can’t hug back. Plus, Cas is warm and it’s cold outside, and his neck is  right there . Fuck it, if Cas were a chick, he would’ve banged him by now. Hell, he would’ve banged him the second he saw him. But Cas is a guy, and Dean has never been this close to a guy he’s been into.

Ugh, he’s into his little brother’s fuck buddy. 

That is so  wrong . 

He pulls back and pats Cas on the shoulder, “Any time you wanna hang or whatever, just drop me a line.”

“I will,” Cas nods his promise and opens up the front door to a gust of frigid air. 

Dean doesn’t even get all the way back to the car before he decides that Sam is getting his ass beat within an inch of his life for leaving Cas high and dry. Like you’d just  do  that to someone anyway, but especially like Cas. He’s weird, but in a good way, and he--he just doesn’t deserve being treated like crap. 

He has to keep reminding himself that this is Sam, though, and he can’t just smack him in the face and tell him to be nice to Cas. He’ll have to listen to his side of the story, he’ll have to be diplomatic and fair in his reasoning. 

How does Judge Judy do it?

Oh, that’s right, she’s not ruling between her brother and the guy she wants to stick her dick in.

… wait, no. Not that last part. 

It’s not even midnight by the time he pulls up in front of Bobby’s. He stalks up to the front door, so blinded by his concern for Cas and his sweet, doofy heart, that he doesn’t even notice there are voices coming from the study nook. 

“Sam, get your bitchass out here,” he calls, only to stop dead in his tracks the moment he steps into the room. Instantly his spine straightens and knees lock, his gut bubbles and his muscles ball up tight. Sam sits on the couch beside Bobby in a similar state, grinding his molars and looking up at a cobweb on the ceiling. 

From the couch on the opposite end of the room, Dean hears, “Hey, Dean.” 

It’s only then that Dean gets up the courage to look over.

“Hey, dad.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. Happy Valentine's Day from your friendly neighborhood aro!


	4. Chapter 4

A tooley fog of tension rolls into the room, perpetuated by the token genetic inability of the Winchester men to break uncomfortable silences. Dean looks at Sam and Sam back at Dean; they both look to Bobby and turn back to see dad staring at them.

Deciding enough is enough, Bobby hoists himself off the couch and says, “I’m gonna make some coffee.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Sam points out, all scowls.

“If I know anything about you boys, you’re not gonna be doin’ much sleeping tonight anyway,” from the kitchen, Bobby looks from Sam to John, then back at his coffee filters.

Flashes of past battles flit through Dean’s memory: a prepubescent Sam snarling at a lumbering drunk at least three times his size, and like some twisted David and Goliath, unafraid to take on the challenge.

“It’s been a long time,” dad finally speaks. Dean’s shoulders go loose and he takes in a breath of he didn’t realize he’d been neglecting to breathe.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Sam’s leg bounces wildly, but Dean doesn’t tell him to stop. Dean is more than aware that the bouncing is the only thing that’s keeping Sam from spitting venom and cracking skulls.

“Listen, before we go any further--”

“We just started,” Sam remarks, only to have an unopened stack of coffee filters chucked at his head.

“See what mouthin’ off gets you next,” Bobby warns. Sam says nothing, but does slump back in his seat and pout like the petulant little twat that he is.

Dean looks up in time to catch Bobby’s encouraging nod to dad.

“Okay,” dad scrubs his face with his hands. “I’ll be the first to tell you that I wasn’t good to you boys.”

A dull ache stirs in Dean’s heart, one that compels him to say, “You did the best you could, dad.”

“No, don’t give me any of that crap, Dean,” dad shakes his head, and so Dean sighs and looks down at the cracked linoleum in the kitchen.

“Sorry, sir.”

He hears Sam’s knuckles crack one by one.

“I was a deadbeat,” dad admits.

“Past tense?”

“Sam!”

Sam groans as loudly as he can and shoves a throw pillow over his face.

Dad looks over at Dean, and Dean shrugs, “You don’t remember being a seventeen-year-old shit head?”

“No, fuck you guys!” Sam shoots upright. “You can’t just come back to your kids six years after you abandoned them and expect me to throw a parade or something!”

“I’m not asking for a parade,” dad’s tone strikes a familiar, bone-chilling chord. “I’m not even asking for forgiveness--”

“Good!”

“I just want to talk,” dad enunciates very slowly.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Sam practically leaps up off the couch and rises to his full height. “What would I possibly have to say to you?”

Dad stands too and, just as Dean gets in position to dive between them, he lays his hands on Sam’s shoulders--gentle but firm.  

Sam is almost as tall as dad.

“It’s not anything you have to say to me, Sam,” says dad, and Dean’s guts boil as Sam goes tense at the contact. “It’s what I have to say to you.”

“I don’t even know what you would wanna say to me!” Sam throws dad’s hands off of him. “And don’t fucking touch me!”

Without another word, Sam darts for the stairs and takes them two by two. Dean stands with dad and Bobby, the three of them peering up at the ceiling until they hear Sam’s door slam shut.

“That went about as expected,” dad says.

“Give him time,” Bobby advises as he comes back into the study with two piping cups of coffee in hand. Dean takes Sam’s Star Wars mug, not (entirely) out of desire for the nerd factor but because he knows Sam will flip his shit if dad touched anything of his.

“What about you,” dad turns to Dean. “I s’pose you hate me too. Couldn’t say I’d blame you.”

“I don’t hate you,” says Dean as he comes to sit in Sam’s now abandoned section of sofa. “And Sam doesn’t either. Just--what the hell are you doing here?”

“Bobby said shape up or ship out,” dad shrugs, taking his seat once more. “Shipped out, shaped up, and came back.”

“Shaped up?” Dean asks. “Don’t tell me you’re selling Bibles door-to-door or something.”

“No,” dad shakes his head. “I’ve been in Minnesota. Sobered up, got a job doing auto repair at a rundown little shop, helped fix it up, and now I run the place.”

Dean blinks.

In his wildest dreams, at his most optimistic, he never thought he would hear those words come out of his dad’s mouth.

“Sobered up?” Dean repeats. “I mean, that’s great about the shop, but Jesus, how long you been sober?”

“Coming up on five years,” dad’s lips curl into a faint smile.

Huh.

Abdicating parental duties must really give a guy a lot of spare time.

“I should go check on Sam,” Dean says and stands, his coffee untouched.

Predictably, Sam’s door is locked when Dean reaches it. He gives a faint knock and reassures, “It’s just me.”

A period of silence passes before the lock sounds and Sam opens the door, just a crack, in order to confirm whether or not Dean is being truthful.

“If you’re up here to tell me to give him a chance--”

“I’m not, you little pissant,” Dean groans. “Open up.”

“Jerk,” Sam mutters as he stands aside.

“Bitch,” Dean shoots back, and rams his shoulder into Sam’s on his way in.

Sam locks the door again and slaps his forehead against the ancient wood.

“Why,” is all he says. “Why today? Why _ever_?”

“I don’t know,” Dean sighs and straddles Sam’s desk chair. He rests his chin on his folded arms and continues, “I’ll say it once, I’ll say it a thousand times if I have to: sobriety does weird things to people.”

Sam goes stalk still at this, then turns.

“What?”

“Dad just told me he’s been sober for five years, if you can believe that,” Dean says.

“I can’t,” Sam shakes his head. “Can you?”

Dean shrugs.

Sam shucks his sweater, a foreign tension pulling at his muscles. Upon looking more closely, Dean can see faint marks on his neck.

He licks his lips and decides to ask, “You and Cas getting up to no good in ‘detention’?”

“Huh?”

Dean points at his neck.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam’s face goes red. “Gotta remind him to keep it under the shirt.”

“I ran into Cas at the pizza place,” Dean doesn’t even allow his blood to boil. “Said he was supposed to meet you there.”

Sam frowns, “No I wasn’t.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, watching as Sam sifts through the day’s events and eventually finds it. He leans back against the door and slides down to the floor.

“There it is.”

“Fuck,” Sam fists both hands in his hair. “ _Fuck_ is that what he was talking about earlier?”

“You weren’t listening?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, now pulling his knees to his chest. “Today was weird. I had a dream where I was living with dad and I was totally braindead all day. Dean, I don’t even remember talking to Cas. Like, we hooked up after we were done eating--”

“ _La-la-la-la-laaa,_ ” Dean smacks his hands over his ears.

“And then the day ends and dad’s here?” Sam looks at Dean. “Am I psychic?”

“Psycho, maybe,” Dean says. “He was really in your dream last night?”

Sam nods.

“Shit.”

Sam nods again, then pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“What are you doing?”

“Apologizing to Cas for blowing him off,” Sam mutters. The muscles in his jaw flex; his hands shake and sweat starts to bead on his forehead.

“Dude, when you’re done with that, maybe you should take a beat,” Dean suggests. “Y’know, calm down. Turn in for the night, or whatever.”

Sam ‘ _pfft’s_ and sets his phone down beside him, scrubbing his face until he regains his ability to think. Dean watches as he grabs his sweater and reaches back into the pockets.

“Is that a joint?” Dean asks.

“Maybe,” Sam mutters.

“Where’d you get it?”

“One of the guys that works in stage crew,” Sam explains, patting around his pockets before asking, “You got a lighter?”

Dean reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a bright yellow Bic. He tosses it to Sam, amusement coloring his otherwise pissed off state, “Did you just look for a lighter even though you don’t own one?”

“Shut up,” Sam mumbles around the butt end of the joint and lights it.

“Holy fuck,” Dean raises his eyebrows. “The hair finally come in on your danglers or what?”

Sam flips him off, then proceeds to hack up a lung and a half after his second hit.

“Well, you were cool for two seconds,” Dean offers, then abandons the chair for a spot of floor beside his little brother. While Sam coughs, Dean snags the joint, takes a long drag, then puts it out on the heel of his boot.

“That’s so unpleasant,” Sam wheezes.

“You get used to it,” Dean reassures him and stands. “C’mon, up you go.”

Sam groans as Dean ushers him to his bed. If Dean can already feel the effects of whatever the hell was in that, he can only imagine what Sam must be feeling. His feet drag and his eyelids start to flutter. Group by group, his muscles relax and allow him to flop down like a ragdoll onto his bed.

“Your stage crew buddy’s got a pretty good hook-up,” Dean remarks.

Sam doesn’t say anything, leaving Dean to put Sam’s shoes back in their place and his backpack by his desk. He gets his phone and sweater off the floor, sets the phone on Sam’s nightstand and asks as he snaps the sweater into shape, “You need to wash this?”

Sam grunts.

Useless.

Dean goes to Sam’s hamper, intending to sort the clothes into lights, darks, and colors, but he stops at the brown hoodie at the top of the pile. It was brand new--Dean bought it for him for Christmas--and now it’s basically a twenty dollar jizz rag.

_Gross_.

Dean takes that, a pair of jeans that he was obviously wearing with the sweater, and, you know what? He’ll take whole damn hamper. He drags it all the way downstairs to the washing machine and starts sorting.

Dad and Bobby stand in the kitchen, conversing in hushed tones. Dean can’t make out all of what they’re saying, as the spray from the bottle of Shout spritzes louder than usual in Dean’s ears.

_“--you gotta ease ‘em into it. It’s gonna take time, John.”_

_“I know that… I didn’t expect a lot, but I didn’t think--I don’t know what I thought.”_

Dean purposefully ignores the rest. He should probably text Charlie a warning that he’ll be a mess by the time he gets back to the apartment. Maybe she’ll take enough pity on him and sit with him until he falls asleep on the couch again.

Dean opens up the dryer and sighs. How hard is it to just get your clothes as soon as they’re done? He grabs the lint trap and has a little more difficulty cleaning it out than he would like, then starts to fold. Piece by piece, he folds each and arranges them into careful stacks. Whatever was in that joint is fully in his head now; folding and stacking is all his brain will let him do.

“Dean, that you back there?”

It takes Dean a few moments to reply, “What?”

“Aw, hell,” Bobby appears in the doorway. “You went up to check on Sam, boy. How the hell’d you end up high?”

“I don’t think you want that answer, man,” Dean shakes his head.

Bobby sighs again and pulls Dean along with him. A turn here, a turn there, and Dean is back in the study with dad and Bobby.

“Well, you got the one,” says Bobby. “Can’t guarantee anything’ll stick to ‘im, but at least he’ll sit still.”

“Hey,” Dean tries to frown, but giggles instead.

“Bobby tells me you’ve been working with him,” says dad. Go figure, the first time the guy addresses him sober in at least a decade and Dean is too high to gauge what would be his best reaction in this situation.

So, he goes with the first one that tumbles out of him: “Yeee-up.”

He sinks further into the cushions, but keeps as close an eye on dad as is possible.

“He says you’ve gotten pretty good,” dad continues, sipping at his now cold cup of coffee. “Dumb bastard shouldn’t’ve said that. Next thing he knows I’ll be packing you up and taking you with me.”

Dean’s body reacts to the statement before his mind does--his muscles tensing and his heart rate blipping quick-quick-quickly as all the words fall into their place in his mind.

“Bobby’s gonna have me take over his place,” Dean says.

It’s way too late to take anything back when he finally gets that, oh, dad was kidding around.

“You’re weird sober,” Dean remarks. Just an evening with Cas and already the guy is starting to rub off on him.

And not in the sexy way, like Dean would like. Nope, no sexy dick-sucking Cas around here. Dean gets _‘why would a tin woodsman need a heart if the scarecrow had a brain he could explain that cardiac muscles have no effect on emotions’_ Cas.

Though, that Cas makes him smile.

“Good lord, you need someone to give you a lift back home?” asks Bobby.

“That sounds like a good idea,” dad rises to his feet. He helps Dean out of his cushion sinkhole and tells Bobby. “I’ll drive him. I should get back to the motel anyway. Don’t wanna keep you up.”

“How long you in town for?” Dean asks before he can even think it, letting his dad and Bobby guide him out to dad’s car. It’s too dark and Dean is too out of his mind to make an accurate assessment, but being that dad’s got world-class taste, Dean’s willing to bet she’s a real beauty.

“No use, John,” he hears Bobby say. When he looks around, he sees that he has somehow managed to become buckled into the passenger’s seat.

Christ, he’s a lightweight if this is all it takes to get him this goofy.

It’s a couple minutes (maybe) into driving that Dean comes back to himself enough to take another assessment of his surroundings.

Interior, car, nighttime. _Right_.

Dad drives with a stoicism that Dean can only barely remember, something he hasn’t seen since before mom died.  For the first time in eighteen years, dad looks like dad.

“How long are you here for?” Dean asks again. “I’m listening, I swear.”

Dad shifts in his seat, but replies, “Through the weekend. Then I gotta head back for work.”

“Oh.”

“I’d like to spend a little time with you and your brother before I leave,” dad continues.

A laugh explodes out of Dean’s chest, “Yeah, good luck getting Holden fuckin’ Caulfield on board with that.”

Goddamn it, he really hates that he knows that reference.

“I was hoping you’d be able to talk some sense into him,” dad explains, and Dean frowns.

“This is weird,” he says. “You’re acting weird. Why are you acting weird.”

“I’m not being weird, Dean,” dad insists. “There’s no way in hell Sam is going to listen to me, so I need you to reason with him.”

“He’s a teenager,” Dean grunts. “He’s incapable of rational thought.”

Silence stretches for a few moments, nothing but the white noise of tires on asphalt to keep them grounded.

“You took good care of him,” dad says then. “You always did.”

Something like that shouldn’t be a knockout hit, but that’s how Dean takes it.

“Now Bobby said you live up around here somewhere?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean sits up. “Turn left at this street up here.”

They roll to a stop outside Dean’s apartment. He unbuckles himself and gets out of the car, prepared to duck back in to say goodbye, but dad’s not in there when he looks. No, dad is already making his way toward the building.

The building that contains his very wonderful, but very, very gay apartment, and his very, very gay roommate, and a very, very bisexual version of Dean himself. He grabs dad by the arm, stopping him halfway up the walk.

“Don’t come up,” he says, because he is just that smooth. “I mean, uh. My roommate, she’s upstairs studying… with her church… bible. People.”

Nailed it.

However, dad’s look of understanding tells Dean that the man could have only misread that cue.

“No, she’s not a girlfriend or anything,” Dean shakes his head. “She’s my best friend.”

“Your best friend is a girl?” asks dad.

Dean’s heart sinks.

“Yeah,” he frowns. “So?”

“No, that’s fine,” dad stuffs his hands in his coat pockets. “I’ll see your place some other time. Have a good night, son.”

He turns and walks right back down to his car. Dean can only watch as the engine starts and the headlights come on. It’s not until dad rolls away that Dean thinks to raise his hand and say goodbye in kind.

 

* * *

 

Okay, so the thing about yanking off your brother’s personal piece of man meat? Yeah, it’s really difficult to look said brother in the eye the next day. And it’s really difficult to sleep the night of, when you can still feel warm breath on your ear and a deft hand pulling at your pud.

Like Gabriel didn’t whack off as soon as Sam dropped him off last night. And then again in the shower when he realized he stank like pot smoke and sex funk. And maybe one more time this morning when he woke up from an intensely vivid dream that involved Sam, no clothing, and public indecency in the form of Sam fucking him into next year in that damn bathroom at school.

It’s only a little past dawn now,when Gabriel peeks out of his room. He listens, makes sure that nobody is up and about yet. and tiptoes downstairs. It’s the type of early morning quietude that amplifies every sound made, from the grumbling of Gabriel’s stomach to the barrage of _tnk-tnk-tnks_ that sound when he pours a heaping helping of Cap’n Crunch into his cereal bowl.

He opens the refrigerator as softly as he can, grabs the milk, and _almost fucking pisses his pants_ when Lucifer appears behind the now closed fridge door.

“Holy Christballs!” Gabriel’s heart jackhammers into his ribs.

“Who did you fuck?” Lucifer demands.

It’s no use lying to Lucifer. Everyone knows that.

But, everyone also knows that excessive amounts of sugar and fat are unhealthy to consume on a regular basis, so…

“No one,” Gabriel replies.

Do half-lies count?

“Oh, it must have been someone good,” Lucifer’s lips spread into a reptilian grin. “Who? It wasn’t that little pischer mom keeps trying to pawn off on Hannah, was it?”

“Who, Aaron?” Gabriel’s voice cracks ( _goddamn it)_ , “No. Hell no. We made out once at camp a few summers ago. It was like getting mouth-to-mouth from an octopus.”

And because he’s running on maybe two non-consecutive hours of sleep, Gabriel grabs Lucifer’s face in both of his hands and starts to make sucking sounds.

Lucifer lets out a laugh, “What the fuck?”

“I don’t know what an octopus sounds like,” Gabriel says and busies himself with pouring milk over his cereal.

“Okay, so if it’s not Motel the fuckin’ tailor then who is it?”

Gabriel stuffs a large spoonful of cereal into his mouth, because that means he’ll never have to answer, right?

“I’ll start guessing,” Lucifer warns. At Gabriel’s silence, he sighs and leans against the fridge, “Kali?”

Gabriel gives him a look for that one.

“Fine,” Lucifer goes through the list of names in his head. He’s only gotta have one or two, right? Lucifer hates everyone--why would he know any of their names?

Another few seconds of pondering and who should wander in but Hannah.

Oh, _shit_.

“Gabriel, Lucifer… please tell me you’re not still awake.”

“Nah,” Lucifer shakes his head. “Gabriel fucked someone last night and I’m trying to guess who.”

“I didn’t fuck anyone!” Gabriel argues, only to have Hannah’s eyes go wide.

Double shit.

“Hannah--”

“Oh, my _God_ , Gabriel.”

“What?” Lucifer perks up, his arms still folded across his chest. “Was it a teacher? Are you pimping yourself out so you can graduate?”

“Fuck you!” Gabriel shoves him.

Meanwhile, Hannah has gone full guppy, her mouth opening and closing, fighting to find words instead of air.

She finally settles on socking him on the shoulder, “You little weasel!”

“Hey!” Gabriel yelps and sets down his bowl in favor of grabbing his shoulder. “ _Rings_! Oh god, you’re wearing your rings, you _dick_.”

“Like you didn’t have it coming,” Hannah drops her voice to a whisper, “You slept with Sam?”

“No!” Gabriel insists as Lucifer sifts through his files yet again.

“Sam, Sam,” he mutters, then looks up. “The kid that studies with Castiel sometimes?”

“No,” Gabriel denies, super convincing.

“Very nice,” Lucifer holds up his hand for a high-five, but Hannah wrestles it down.

“ _Not_ nice!” she snips. “Bad! Very bad!”

“I mean, he’s jailbait for me, but,” Lucifer shrugs. “If you ask me, this one needs someone who can throw him around a little.”

“Castiel has been having sex with Sam,” Hannah interjects.

Now it’s Lucifer’s eyes that bug out and jaw that drops. He turns to Gabriel, who is now seriously considering shoving both of his hands in the garbage disposal, and accuses, “You _devil_.”

The three of them pause at the sound of the front door opening and shutting. As far as they know, mom and dad are asleep upstairs. Unless something went wrong last night and nobody told them--

Gabriel can’t even follow that thought to its conclusion. No one in this family can sit on bad news for thirty seconds before it’s passed to everyone in the house.

Another half a breath and in the kitchen doorway stands Michael, dressed to the nines in gray sweatpants and a somehow grayer sweater, with a baby in a sling wrapped around his chest.

“Are we performing a ritual sacrifice?” he asks.

“What do you want?” asks Lucifer.

“I thought I’d come by and show off my new line of handbags,” Michael gestures to his son.

“Ah, right,” Lucifer nods. “Fresh out of your wife’s uterus, just in time for spring.”

Michael flips him off and pulls open the refrigerator door.

“Eve’s got conference calls all morning and I’m on baby duty,” he explains, coming out of the fridge with a pack of cold cuts and a bottle of mustard.

“More like baby _doody_ ,” Gabriel says before he can help himself, earning him three pairs of eyes boring into him. “What? It’s a disease, I can’t help it.”

“What the hell are you all doing down here, anyway?” asks Michael as he grabs the bread out of the box by the window and a plate from the cabinet. “I was pretty sure I was only gonna see mom.”

“You were gonna pawn him off, weren’t you?” Lucifer holds out his arms, waiting. Michael stops making his sandwich mid-squeeze of mustard and demands that Lucifer wash his hands before he passes over the little pink chunk monster that is Noah Milton.

“Hey there, kiddo,” Lucifer holds Noah to his chest.

Lucifer may hate everyone, but he loves this baby.

“So,” Michael looks up at Gabriel, then to Hannah. “What are we ostracizing him for today?”

“Aw, come _on_!” Gabriel groans.

“He’s fucking someone Uncle Castiel is already putting it to, isn’t he?” Lucifer asks Noah.  

Gabriel throws his hands up as Michael gives him a long-suffering, “ _Really_?”

“I didn’t fuck anyone!” Gabriel all but shouts. “Handjobs, okay? That’s it. Everyone knows that handjobs don’t count.”

“Holy god,” Michael mutters as Lucifer starts to cackle and Hannah hangs her head.

“So we traded handies,” Gabriel insists. “That’s a kind, neighborly thing to do.”

“Not when the other person is involved with someone else, you schmuck!” Michael argues back. “What the hell were you thinking? Your own brother is gonna end up heartbroken and it’s all gonna be on you.”

“Wow, this is an inspiring amount of guilt you’re laying on,” Lucifer remarks. “I guess when you marry outside the tribe, you’ve gotta pick up the slack somehow. Never send a shikse to do a Jewish mother’s job.”

“Will you knock it off!” Michael shouts. “And stop calling my wife a shikse, you asshole!”

“Well she is!”

“What the hell is this?”

All four of them stop and turn to see Castiel now in the doorway, his hair awry and his face still marked up from the wrinkles in his pillowcase.

“Nothing,” says Michael.

“Everything’s normal,” Gabriel nods, still unable to look at Castiel directly.

“Hmm,” Cas grumbles and rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Has anyone made coffee yet?”

Hannah shakes her head, and with her brothers watches as Castiel shuffles toward the coffee maker. Gabriel sends everyone a silent plea to keep their mouths shut request, he realizes, but it's better that he ask and hope for the best.

"Late night for you too, Cassie?" Lucifer asks. While Cas' back is still turned, Gabriel turns up both his middle fingers.

"I watched an adult man cower at the sight of the Wicked Witch of the West and discovered that I am not a fan of the Western film genre," Castiel yawns into his shoulder. "At least it was a somewhat productive night."

"Lord," Hannah claps her hands over her face. Castiel doesn’t realize he’s being watched as he sets his coffee to percolate in the machine, thanks in large part to the way that everyone averts their eyes when he turns back to them.

It’s only then that Castiel has come to himself enough to squint his eyes at Lucifer’s armful of baby and greet, “Hello, Noah.”

Silence falls again.

“Jesus, really feelin' the naches in this place," Gabriel mutters. "I'm gonna get outta here before I suffocate."

He doesn’t wait for anyone’s smartass remarks before he makes a break for his room. It occurs to him that he barely got anything to eat, but he’ll try again later. He’s not about to sit down in the kitchen and be designated family punching bag. Not right now.

Instead, he curls up under his covers, pulls his laptop up from the floor, and tries not to let the oppressive squish of his heart stick in his chest. Now even Michael knows, which means sooner or later today he’ll be getting a lecture about respecting others and their relationships, romantic or otherwise.

Gabriel can’t help but be mildly annoyed when two fat tears spill out of his eyes.

Great, like he really needs this?

He plugs in his headphones and drowns his sorrows in episodes of Cupcake Wars until he fades into unconsciousness. Thankfully there’s no Sam in his head this time. There’s not really anything, Gabriel realizes, except for him wondering why there isn’t more stuff going on. His mind won’t quite settle on an image, nor will it settle on a story to tell. Everything happens at once.

When he wakes, it’s to the sound of his phone chirping as loudly as it possibly can. Of course he forgot to turn the sound down when he got home last night. His Netflix page has timed out, his headphones have fallen out of his ears, and Sam Winchester’s name flashes across his screen. Gabriel rubs the sleep out of his eyes and swipes through to see a message:

_‘Hey, are you free at all today? I could kind of use a friend.’_

Gabriel’s heart speeds up again. See, now this? This is weird. Who the hell wants Gabriel’s advice or friendship or whatever the crap Sam is saying. There’s absolutely nothing Gabriel is qualified to help anyone with, absolutely nothing Gabriel could suggest that would have positive consequences.

How starved for friendship is Sam that he thinks Gabriel is a prime candidate for this? Does he have a “Psychiatric Help 5 cents” banner tattooed on his forehead?

Just when he starts to reply that he’s busy for the whole day, that teeny tiny voice in his head begs him to listen, just this once. The thing about the teeny voice is that it subsists off of a strict diet of soul-shattering shame and gut-rotting guilt, and Gabriel learned long ago how to resist feeding the beast.

But every once in a while he accidentally lets a few scraps fall onto the floor, and the teeny voice is so fast and so easy to satiate that it can grow to a full-bodied bellow and force him down a road he’d rather not travel.

_‘Yeah, I’m free. Everything ok?’_

Gabriel regrets asking as soon as he hits send, though he couldn’t explain why.

His gut lurches when his phone sounds again.

_‘Not really. You know the Caribou Coffee on Minnesota and 28th?’_

_‘I sure do.’_

_‘Could we meet there?’_

_‘Yeah, no problem. What time?’_

_‘I was thinking now. Is that okay?’_

Gabriel checks the time on his computer.

_‘Out of bed before 10 on a Saturday… you’re so lucky I like you, Winchester.’_

_‘Dude, thank you. See you soon?’_

_‘You got it.’_

Gabriel throws his squishy down comforter off of his body and shucks his clothes. There’s hardly a better way to decide what to wear than standing in front of your dresser, totally in the buff, trying to remember which of your t-shirts makes you look the least like the Kool-Aid man.

Once dressed, Gabriel heads back downstairs. It’s all quiet again, with Michael now sacked out on the couch and Lucifer holding Noah as he channel surfs from the floor.

“Anyone using the station wagon?” Gabriel asks.

“Mom’s car broke down,” Lucifer explains. “She took it to the shop and had Cas follow her to bring her back home.”

“Great,” Gabriel sighs. “Any chance you’ll let me borrow your car?”

“Depends on what you’re using it for,” Lucifer finally looks over at him. Like Michael, Noah is fast asleep.

“I’m meeting a friend for coffee,” says Gabriel.

“Your beau?”

“He’s not--!” Gabriel instantly quiets himself. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but if I did I would tell you that I’m not meeting him and we’re just friends.”

“Smooth,” Lucifer nods, an oily grin on his face. “You can take it if you fill the tank.”

“You’re a saint,” Gabriel salutes.

“How dare you!” he hears Lucifer call back after him. “Don’t you put that evil on me!”

Gabriel snorts, grabs the keys, and heads on out to Lucifer’s car.

Lucifer’s degree is in environmental science and engineering. He had a research job on top of being a freaky mad scientific genius. He could have reinvented the way the world powers itself. Industrial revolution? Bah. Lucifer could have brought the world into an era of clean air and renewable energy.

All that and the fucker drives a goddamned 1984 Honda Accord. It’s a _hatchback_ , for shit’s sake. Sure, it gets good gas mileage, but god, at what cost?

… though, this is coming from someone who shares a Station Wagon with Tim Burton’s Hansel and Gretel, so who is Gabriel to judge?

As Gabriel makes the drive up to the coffee shop, he makes sure to reset all of Lucifer’s radio to Christian and soft rock stations. Does he cackle to himself when he thinks about Lucifer’s dumb face when he realizes that the soft-spoken Christian DJs are not NPR hosts?

Does he?

Gabriel gets to Caribou before Sam, so he grabs his coffee, a caramel high rise (with extra caramel, because it’s already that kind of a day)and grabs a table outside. There’s no sign of oncoming snow in the sky, though there’s still patches here and there on the ground. There’s a bite to the air, but it’s a good feeling.

It better be the cool air giving him that good feeling, anyway, because otherwise it’s Sam Winchester’s dorky face that’s making his chest all warm inside.

“Hey, I’m just gonna grab a coffee,” Sam says as he makes his way to the door.

“Take your time,” Gabriel raises his cup, then takes a sip. “Oh, fuck me. Fuck me, that is hot still.”

He’s talking to himself now too.

That’s just…

_Fantastic_.

He only just regains control over the scorched remains of his tongue when Sam sits down in the chair beside him.

“Thanks for coming,” Sam says, only to warn him a second later, “Don’t even.”

“Come on,” Gabriel throws up his hands. “You can’t set me up like that and expect me not to--”

“Don’t,” Sam repeats.

They stare at one another for a few seconds before Gabriel says, “Ejaculation,” and gets Sam to laugh into his coffee.

“So, what’s new, pussycat?” Gabriel asks.

Though Sam requested they meet, he seems surprised at Gabriel’s interest.

Ah, shit.

This is the ‘we can’t do that ever again’ conversation, isn’t it? Figures. Sam’s one of those guys that’s gonna have men and women falling over themselves for the rest of his life. Gabriel will be lucky if he ever gets out of this crap--

“My dad came back last night.”

Oh.

So, not about Gabriel.

“Wait, your dad ‘came back’?” he asks. “From where?”

“Who the fuck knows?” Sam shrugs. “He left us with my uncle one night and never came back. He even left his car, which was just unthinkable, you know? God’s honest truth, I thought he was dead.”

Gabriel allows this information to soak in before he asks, “What the hell?”

“Dude, my dad...” Sam laughs and puts his face in his hands. “Asshole. He’s an asshole. He’s a total fuckwad that couldn’t have cared less about me and Dean. I didn’t know my mom, but from everything Dean’s told me about her, I don’t know how she could’ve ended up with a guy like my dad.”

“What happened to your mom?” Gabriel’s voice goes lower than he’d ever thought possible, his eyes fixed entirely on Sam.

“She died when I was a baby,” Sam shrugs. “House fire.”

“Oh, shit,” Gabriel frowns. “Your house caught fire?”

“Yeah,” Sam shakes his head and peers down at his coffee cup. “I guess when you borrow money from a guy who does most of his business in a back alley, you can’t be surprised when your house goes up in flames after a couple late payments.”

Gabriel feels his eyes go wide.

“Shit,” is all he can think to say. “All my mom died of was pneumonia. Couldn’t even leave me with a good story to tell.”  

Sam looks up at Gabriel with an indecipherable pinch to his face.

“That was rude of her,” he says then, and Gabriel snorts.

“Damn straight,” he folds his arms on the rickety table. “Downright inconsiderate, if you ask me. Who the fuck dies of pneumonia?”

“You know that’s your mom, right?” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“She would’ve said the same fucking thing,” Gabriel rolls his eyes and pats the table, “C’mon, you didn’t ask me out just to berate me about my lack of respect for the dead. What’s the deal with your dad?”

Sam groans, caught in his attempt to divert the conversation.

“He just showed up last night,” he says. “Haven’t heard from him in years, and the fucker just comes back and wants to hang out like nothing ever happened. I don’t like him, man. I don’t like my dad. I--I don’t even know if I love him the way you’re supposed to love your parents, you know? Like, sometimes I think if it came down to it, in some post-apocalyptic scenario, and I needed to, I could kill him. Without even blinking or feeling bad or anything. Isn’t that fucked?”

Gabriel takes a breath before he nods, “Pretty fucked, yeah. But as long as you’re not actually planning on murdering anyone, I think you’ll be fine. You planning murder?”

Sam shakes his head.

“Man, sometimes you just get dealt a shitty hand in the family department,” Gabriel says.  

“But I love Dean,” Sam says. “And that’s what makes me crazy too, is that Dean still thinks the sun shines out of our dad’s ass. He wants to hear what that fucker has to say and I know he’s gonna end up forgiving him, because that’s what he does. Dean can let this kind of shit go and I don’t know how. How do  you just forgive someone for putting you through so much crap?”

“No idea,” Gabriel shakes his head. “My two cents? You don’t have to do jack shit.”

“I have to have dinner with Dean, my dad and my uncle tonight,” says Sam.

“Yeah, but if you don’t wanna forgive your dad then don’t,” Gabriel shrugs. “You’ve got every right to be pissed, so be pissed.”

Sam just stares back at him, hinged on every word. “I can do that?” he asks.

“Why not?” Gabriel asks. “Being angry is a part of life. Accepting your anger is probably way more helpful than getting angry at yourself for being angry. Then you’re just angry all the time, and what kind of life is that? You’re too good looking to be angry all the time.”

Sam snorts, hard, and thuds his forehead down on the tabletop.

After a few moments, he says, “I needed this.”

“I know you did, Sammy,” Gabriel reaches up to pat him on the head, but ends up stroking his fingers through Sam’s silky smooth hair.

Sam lets out a satisfied sigh, “Don’t do that unless you wanna destroy the bathroom with me.”

“Promises, promises,” Gabriel chuckles and takes his hand back. “If you want, I can be on call tonight. I’m not doing anything.  If you need an out from dinner, or wanna bitch afterward, just send up the bat signal.”

Sam looks back up and smiles that soft smile and blinks those puppy dog peepers.

“You’re a good friend,” he says.

Gabriel can’t imagine that’s even remotely true, but as long as he can put a smile on Sam’s face, he’s willing to suspend his disbelief.

 

* * *

 

_‘Hey can we hang out?’_

Castiel stares at his phone’s glaring white screen until there are spots dancing in his vision. He looks up only to realize he’s idled in the produce section of the grocery store for so long that he’s lost track of his mom.

Damn.

He flips back to his messages and replies, _‘My mom’s car is in the shop so she’s using mine.’_

To be honest, Castiel isn’t in the mood to hang out right now. He’s not even in the mood to be at the grocery store, but with Gabriel stone cold passed out and Hannah’s outright refusal to drive their mom anywhere, it falls on Castiel to tote her around on her errands.

He weaves through the aisles until he finds his mom, who weighs two loaves of bread in her hands as she would the hearts of two evenly matched men in the afterlife.

“Castiel, which do you prefer?” she asks. “On the one hand you have higher fiber, on the other lower sodium.”

“I don’t care,” Castiel ejects before he can quite help it.

“Oh, not you too,” mom sighs. “Can’t I have one child who doesn’t give me grief for every little thing I say?”

“If you stopped agitating your children, we wouldn’t have to give you grief,” Castiel points out.

Mom tosses the lower sodium bread into the cart and turns a sharp eye on Castel.

“What is your problem?” she asks.

“I have many,” says Castiel. “To catalogue and divulge each one would be very time consuming and, I presume, very boring.”

“Castiel!” mom admonishes, and Castiel sighs.

“I apologize,” he says “I’m not feeling w--”

He doesn’t even get to finish before mom’s hand is on his forehead, “What is it? Are you nauseous? Headache? Body aches?”

“No, not that way,” Castiel pulls away from her hand. “I had a crappy day yesterday and I don’t wish to discuss it.”

“What happened?” mom asks, because the phrase ‘I don’t wish to discuss it’ is nonexistent in her lexicon. He can’t evade or deflect, because that will only make her worry; he can’t lock it down and not speak for the rest of the day, because that would make her worry even more.

“I got stood up for a date last night,” he says. Sometimes the best course of action is to be truthful.

“Stood up!?” Mom’s voice breaks into pterodactyl range, drawing the attention of several people in the aisle with them. “What kind of heartless monster would stand up my baby? Look at this face. Any girl would kill for a beautiful boy like you, with this punim--”

“It wasn’t a girl.”

Mom’s face falls, her voice sticks in the back of her throat. Perhaps he should inform Gabriel that coming out is an effective weapon with which to render their mother speechless.

“It wasn’t a girl,” mom repeats.

“It was not,” Castiel confirms. “My date was a boy. I like boys.”

Another moment and mom lets out a laugh, “Oh, you do not.”

That seems about right.

“I do, mom,” Castiel says.

“I know for a fact that you like girls, Castiel,” mom argues.

“Not exclusively,” Castiel counters. “And not that the bread aisle of the grocery store is the place to be discussing this, but sexuality is very fluid, and mine appears to be incredibly so.”

Mom falls silent again. Castiel’s heart is in his throat, because even though his mother is by no means a closed-minded woman, he knows that it’s a much different issue when it’s your own child telling you something of such magnitude.

Unable to handle the pause, Castiel asks, “Does it make you feel any differently towards me?”

Of all things, Castiel does not expect a smack upside the head.

“Mom!”

“What kind of a question is that?!” she bellows, and has now successfully cleared the aisle. Without another breath, mom pulls him into a bone-crushing hug and declares for the world to hear, “You’re my little boy, Castiel. You’ll always be my little boy. I love you, sweetheart, and no matter what that will never change.”

She seals the sentiment with a kiss to his forehead, leaving Castiel with a lump in his throat, around which he can barely say, “Thank you, mom.”  

“Hush,” she hums. “So, what kind of boy would leave my precious baby out to dry.”

“I am eighteen, you could stand to not infantilize me in public,” says Castiel.

“You and your sister used my bladder as a punching bag for seven months,” mom reminds him. “I will do whatever I please. Now, who spurned my pride and joy?”

Castiel sighs and looks down at the floor, “Sam Winchester.”

“Oh, honey,” mom tuts. “I’ll tell you what I tell your sisters: you never trust a man whose hair is longer than yours-- _What_!”

“I don’t even have time to begin to tell you all the problems with that statement,” Castiel shakes his head. “He apologized last night and told me he didn’t realize he’d agreed to a date--and that has nothing to do with the length of his hair.”

“You said it,” mom dismisses with a wave of her hand. “Are you having sex?”

“Mom!” Castiel cries again.

“Just because there’s no pregnancy risk doesn’t mean you don’t need to be safe,” she warns.

“Jesus,” Castiel sighs. “And not that it’s any of your business, but yes. However, herein lies my problem: he has a brother.”

“Oh, _Castiel_ ,” mom chides.

“I like Sam, Castiel continues, “But I also like his brother, Dean, a lot.”

The look on mom’s face is one that Castiel hasn’t seen since Lucifer and Michael tried to stuff him in a garbage can and roll him down a hill.

“I hung out with Dean last night instead and I had a lot of fun,” he says. “And I think he had a lot of fun too.  But then I had Sam apologize to me last night and ask to hang out today. I told him no, but I don’t want to stop hanging out with him altogether because I like him too. I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re going to give me a heart attack,” mom rubs her temples.

“Dean is also twenty-two and inhumanly handsome,” Castiel mentions. “In case that’s relevant.”

“Are you trying to kill me?”  

“That’s offensive,” Castiel frowns. “I’d expect you to know that I would put a little more into planning your murder than just telling you about my romantic tribulations.”

That gets him another smack upside the head.

“Sweetheart,” she now cups his face in her hands. “I know that right now your hormones are flowing and it’s making it difficult for you to see reason--”

“At the risk of getting hit again, I feel it necessary to point out that this is why no one talks to you,” Castiel says and, as predicted, gets another whack upside the head.

“Castiel, my sunshine, light of my life, my sweet baby boy--”

“ _Mom_...”

“I love you, sweetheart,” she grabs his face again. “You are a loving, good-hearted, loyal person, but sometimes those very admirable qualities make you do very dumb things.”

“Mom, will you please let go of my face?”

“No,” she says. “I am your mother and I reserve the right to touch your face and give you unsolicited advice whenever I want. You’re not only dealing with your feelings, but theirs too. Your actions have consequences, good and bad. Please be mindful of that.”

She gives him another peck on the forehead before she lets him go and continues on her quest for groceries. Castiel stands in the same spot for a few moments, marinating himself in the whole exchange.

Well, at least she didn’t disown him.

Castiel grabs his phone back out of his pocket. He doesn’t even notice that there’s no reply to his earlier text to Sam. All he can focus on aside from the staccato of his heartbeat is pulling up a message to Dean.

_‘I had fun last night. Can we hang out again soon?’_

He hits ‘send’ and stows his phone, taking a few steadying breaths before he dashes to catch up to his mom.

 

* * *

 

_ ‘Help.’ _

_‘Damn, already? Just breathe and remember: dial ‘m’ for murder.’_

_‘What do I dial for triple homicide?’_

_‘You use the Ouija to call Johnny Cochran and pray he’s not busy escorting souls across the river styx.’_

Sam snorts so loudly that Dean looks up from the garlic on the cutting board and sincerely believes, “You’re in a better mood than I thought.”

The irony being, of course, that this observation shoots down Sam’s mood midflight.

“Don’t bet on it,” he mutters.

“Man, could you just not be a surly teenager for one night?” Dean asks. “It’s bumming me out.”

“So, I’m bothering you, but the fact that our transient father showed up unannounced and wants to break bread and sing Kumba-fucking-ya with us isn’t?”

Sam doesn’t know why he bothered to ask, because he knows the answer. This doesn’t piss off Dean nearly as much as it should. Hell, he’s even making a tray of lasagna and garlic bread for the guy--a dish notoriously spurned by Dean for how much time it takes to make.

It smells so good, but it’s a thin veil over the stench of treachery.

So far, the only person who seems to understand the utter abhorrence of the situation has been Gabriel. It’s more than an understanding of the situation: Gabriel hasn’t tried to talk him out of being angry, nor has he tried to defend dad’s actions or given him an ‘objective point of view’.

For once, someone is on his side.

“If you’re gonna be a fuckin’ pill about everything, do it while you set the table,”  says Dean.

Sam lets out a long, steady groan as he retrieves the plates from the cabinet and starts to arrange them on the table. Meanwhile, dad is out in the yard with Bobby, looking at the line up of Bobby’s newest junked cars. Sam watches, trying to pinpoint anything that will give him a clue as to why dad is even here. The way he laughs, how he walks around a rusted up ‘71 Nova, even the way he claps Bobby on the shoulder--there has to be something nefarious lurking under there.

It’s only when the last utensil is in place that dad and Bobby come back inside.

“Holy shit, son,” dad whistles as Dean sets the lasagna on the table. “Where’d you learn to cook like that?”

“Oh, um,” Dean drops one of the hotpads in his hands and stoops to pick it up.

“He didn’t learn from anywhere,” says Sam. “He’s just good at it.”

“Looks like,” dad nods and sits at the chair closest to the door. Sam doesn’t even need to look at Dean to know that his chest is out and his spine is straight, the whole of him swollen with pride at dad’s praise.

Sam breathes hard through his nose and grabs his phone.

_‘This is a fucking nightmare.’_

He only feels a little bad for being so upset to the one person who isn’t on his shit list right now, but if Gabriel hadn’t meant it, he wouldn’t have told Sam to text him every time he needs a lifeline.

_‘I had one of those. Clown orgy, couldn’t wake up. Everything they say about big shoes is true.’_

Sam smiles as another text comes through, _‘So much honking.’_

_‘Dude that’s terrifying.’_

_‘Not as terrifying as expecting a faceful of jizz and having a bunch of confetti explode on your face.’_

_‘Jesus Christ, I hate clowns so much that should not be so funny.’_

“Sam, put your phone away and sit,” Bobby directs.

And there goes the good feeling.

Sam does as he’s told, taking the seat across from Bobby, if only so he won’t have to see dad or Dean directly every time he looks up.

At least there’s lasagna and an entire loaf of french bread all garliced up and buttered to perfection. It occurs to Sam as he heaves a gargantuan lump of molten cheese and noodles onto his plate that this is one of Sam’s favorite things that Dean makes. Not only that, but that he’s told this to Dean at least a dozen times, and every time Dean makes it he bitches about how time-consuming it is.

The lasagna is a bribe. It’s a dirty bribe meant to keep Sam docile and complacent through the duration of the meal. There are even chopped olives and mushrooms between the layers of noodles: two of Sam’s favorite foods that Dean omits from every dish as often as is possible.

That tricky bastard.

“Wow, Dean,” dad marvels after his first bite. “This is incredible.”

Sam stuffs half of a piece of bread into his mouth just to keep from rolling his eyes.

“Thanks, dad,” Dean says.

“You cook, you’re working with Bobby,” dad smiles, unjustified, undeserved pride rolling off of him.  

“He’s actually the one that had the idea to fix up the clunkers out there,” Bobby inclines his head in the vague direction of the old cars outside. “Finished up one a couple months ago, sold it for a real nice profit.”

“Really?” dad looks at Dean. “That was your idea?”

Dean shifts in his seat, but nods, “Yessir.”

“He got his GED and took a couple business classes at the community college,” Sam interjects. “It was a couple years ago, but his professor offered to write him a letter of recommendation if he ever wants to go and get his degree.”

Dean delivers a swift kick to Sam’s shin under the table.

“No kidding,” dad nods. “That’s good stuff, kid.”

It’s one of the most withholding things Sam has ever heard anyone say about Dean and it makes his blood boil.

“And you’re off to college in the fall, aren’t you?” dad asks Sam. “Bobby says you’re third in your class. Talk about good stuff.”

Sam hums.

“Any idea where you’re going?” dad tries again, but Sam’s not taking the bait. The lasagna is enough to buy his silence, but nothing will ever buy his cordiality.

He shrugs and brings upon the table an awkward silence that stretches on and on, out into the infinite.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he retrieves it without a second thought.

_‘Excuse u, don’t you know all the world loves a clown?’_

_‘Cole Porter taught us that.’_

_‘Do you want to make a liar out of Cole Porter?’_

_‘I didn’t think so.’_

_Despite the situation, Sam chuckles and replies, ‘You’re insane.’_

_‘No, I’m in my room, but good guess.’_

_‘Oh my god..._ ’

“Sam,” Bobby warns, so Sam puts his phone back in his pocket.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” dad continues a train of thought that Sam obviously was not listening to, “I do have a reason for coming here--a couple of them, actually. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you boys, and you gotta know how sorry I am for what I put you through. I never wanted anything to turn out the way that it did, but I’m hoping there’s still something we can salvage.”

Sam bites his tongue so hard that he almost draws blood. He pulls out his phone again, ready to send Gabriel a harshly-worded text in all capital letters, but there’s already an unread message on his screen.

_‘Would you like to know what I’m doing all alone in my room?’_

Sam swallows and writes back, ‘Anything that will get my mind off of this hellacious nightmare’,  before Bobby can catch him. He keeps the phone out of his pocket, resting under the table on his thigh.

_‘I’m thinking about yesterday in your truck and now I’m hard as a fucking rock.’_

Sam accidentally inhales his garlic bread.

“You okay, Sam?” dad asks.

Sam nods as he texts back, _‘You are not, liar.’_

_‘Yah-huh. I’m so hard it’s not even funny and every time I remember your dick in my hand I think about how good it’d feel inside me.’_

Sam drops the phone with a loud thunk! and slides onto the floor to retrieve it. There’s another message now:

_‘I’ll send you proof. Hard evidence, if you will.’_

_‘yr killing me, you know that right’_

_‘Was that a yes?’_

“Jesus Christ, Sam, what the hell’s got you so damn squirrely?” Bobby peers under the table just as Sam hits send.

“Sorry, I’m just--group” Sam scrambles up from the floor and continues to stammer through his explanation: “Group work. Group member can’t find his hard--his copy of the assignment directions so I’m just gonna go upstairs and snap a picture for him really quick.”

He doesn’t wait to see anybody’s reaction, doesn’t even know if he was the least bit convincing. He just runs upstairs and locks himself in his room, now wrestling with his own stiffy in his jeans.

_‘Son of a bitch now i’m hard too.’_

_‘omfg you nerd i was making my thing up’_

_‘You were not.’_

And not ten seconds later comes photographic evidence that no, Gabriel was not making his thing up. A brand new fire lights up under Sam’s skin, pushing away the trainwreck that’s going on downstairs. Sam shimmies his jeans down just a little bit and grabs himself with no hesitation.

Against his better judgement, Sam snaps a picture of his own and sends it to Gabriel.

_‘DONT CLOG UP MY PHONE WITH CHILD PORNOGRAPHY, DICK’_

Sam makes quick work of himself, his brain already fogged over with images of Gabriel. His dick, his hands, how nicely they would feel on the rest of Sam’s body, how casually Gabriel mentions Sam being inside him.

He comes in short, jerky spurts at the thought, all over his hand and, crap, he got a little on his pants too.

_‘I’m going to go back to the table with spunk on my jeans. I hope you’re happy. And if you don’t want naked pics, stop soliciting a minor, pervert.’_

_‘We’re sorry, but your call could not be completed at this time. Operator too busy cleaning his cum off the ceiling.’_

The slurry of endorphins coursing through his veins has Sam laughing like a madman as he cleans himself up.

_‘Nice distraction.’_

_‘I do what I can, kiddo.’_

Sam tucks his phone back into his pocket, checks himself in the mirror, and heads back downstairs when he deems himself ready. Unfortunately, there’s no way to rejoin a dinner after having just whacked off without it being at least a little awkward, and Dean staring him down doesn’t make it any better.

“Everything all right?” Bobby asks and Sam nods, hoping his face doesn’t look as hot as it feels.

“Good,” dad nods. “Because I need you boys to hear me out on this. About eleven years ago we were driving through Minnesota. We were on our way here, actually. We stopped for the night and I left you boys in the motel room while I went out.”

Sam catches on only a half second before dad says, “To make a long story short, you boys have a brother.”

The faint ring in Sam’s ears goes from manageable to shrieking banshee almost immediately. Dad’s lips move, but Sam can only look over at Dean, who at least now seems to be in a similar state of shock.

“That’s where I’ve been,” says dad. “Living with Kate and Adam in Windom.”

And just like that, Sam crashes back down to earth.

“Windom,” he says. “Where the hell is that?”

“It’s about a hundred miles east of here,” dad’s voice rasps. “I ended up back there entirely by chance. Kate… she did a lot of good for me. She gave me a roof over my head, helped me get sober--”

“You’ve been a hundred miles away for the last six years?” Sam asks, his voice so much quieter than he intends.

“Sam--”

“You were that close and you never came back to see us once?” Sam’s blood starts to simmer under his skin, his trist upstairs now long forgotten.

“There’s more to it than that, Sam,” dad comes back, a familiar harshness to his tone that puts Sam at more ease than anything else could. “I wasn’t a good father to you and it only would have been worse if I’d come back. I’ve done more harm than any good I could ever do for you boys, and I couldn’t keep doing that.”

“Are you fucking kidding me!” Sam shouts. “You didn’t wanna drop us a line, maybe tell us any of this while it was happening? It might’ve softened the blow of outright abandonment.”

“It’s complicated, Sam,” dad’s voice grows louder too, but he doesn’t shout. “There’s a lot that goes into the process of sobriety. It takes a lot of hard work and dedication to healing.”

“Bullshit,” Sam snaps. “You didn’t like the way your game was going here, so you hit the restart button and shacked up with the woman you knocked up eleven years ago--family, take two!”

“She’s not just the woman I shacked up with,” dad’s voice resonates off of the water glasses on the table. “She’s going to be my wife.”

This time it’s Dean’s voice that breaks over a soft, “ _What_?”

“Kate and I have talked about it on and off for years,” dad explains. “But before that happens, she wanted me to come see you boys.”

“So it wasn’t even your idea to come see us,” Sam nods. “Nice.”

“Sam, will you just pipe down and let the man get two words out?” Bobby intervenes.

God, even Bobby is on dad’s side.

“No,” Sam stands. “No, I won’t. Fuck this, fuck them, and fuck you.” He stares dad right in the eye as he says it, then grabs his jacket and boots from by the door.

He can’t be here. A strip club, a motel, Hogwarts, Mars--anywhere but here.

Sam slams himself in his truck, prepared to leave when he realizes he forgot to grab his keys.

Fuck.

He can’t go back in there, not now. He shoves his feet into his boots, slips on his jacket, and walks. Where he’ll end up, he can’t say.

All he knows is that it can’t be home.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

After a weekend of relative isolation, this morning Castiel finally felt comfortable enough to sit down beside Sam in calculus and ask, “How are you?”

Though Sam shrugged and replied, “Fine”, Castiel suspected otherwise. There was a vacancy in Sam’s eyes that does not and has never come from being ‘fine’.

 _“_ You don’t seem fine,”Castiel had said, and that’s when he’d gotten an earful.

Sam’s father had returned. After six years of complete absence, Mr. Winchester decided to come back to reconnect with his sons. Though Castiel had never met the man himself, he couldn’t help the initial deep freeze in his veins. If Mr. Winchester’s presence could turn caring, funny, headstrong Sam into a virtual zombie, there was no way that he could be the harbinger of anything but trouble.

“If you’d like to talk about it, I’d be happy to,” Castiel had offered, and when that suggestion fell flat he tried again, “Or if you just need a friend, I’m happy to be that too.”

Sam’s face had been a mix of emotions, impossible to decipher until he landed on a small smile.

“Not a date this time, though,” he’d said more than asked.

“No, not a date,” Castiel reassured, hoping he hadn’t looked as embarrassed as he’d felt.

“You wanna watch a movie? We can watch whatever you want.”

Castiel had smiled back, “That sounds fun.”

It’s nothing short of a relief, Castiel finds, as he takes long, casual strides toward Singer Salvage Yard: Sam just needs a friend right now.

That’s all.

No dates, no homework, no fuss, and fortunately, no talk of last Friday.

Not that Castiel is thinking about last Friday, because he most certainly isn’t.

Unfortunately, it’s not until he’s already knocked on Sam’s front door that he sees the message on his phone:

_‘Rehearsal is going late. I can come over to your place after and we can hang out then, if that’s cool. Still your choice of movie :)’_

Castiel doesn’t even have time to reply before the door swings open. On the other side stands Dean, unusually pallid under the layers of motor oil, dirt and sweat. The smell hits him a moment later and his nose scrunches up of its own volition. It’s not as unpleasant as Castiel expected, but it is jarring.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean greets. “Sam’s not here.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Castiel indicates the phone in his hand. “I was just about to text him back… are you--”

His voice sticks in his throat when Dean catches his eye. It’s all he can do to ask, “How are you, Dean?”

“Oh, y’know, just...” Dean looks over his shoulder before stepping out onto the porch. “Sam tell you?”

Castiel cocks his head, “About your father?”

“So, ‘yes’,” Dean leans back against the front door.

“Well, he didn’t tell me much,” Castiel offers. “As you know, he’s not exactly a font of personal information and feelings.”

Dean chuckles, “Then it’s gonna kill you to hear that he’s the emotionally available one in the family.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Castiel smiles back. “Is he here? Your father, I mean.”

“Oh, no,” Dean shifts against the door. “He had to go back to Windom.”

“Right,” Castiel nods. “Sam said he has--well, I won’t repeat the exact words, since they’re uncomplimentary to say the very least. But he said that he has another child with a woman in Windom.”

“Ugh, yeah,” Dean melts away from the door and shuffles over to the sun-bleached wicker chair under the window. “We’re dad’s other family.”

“Didn’t you two come first?” Castiel asks. “Why wouldn’t they be the other family?”

“I don’t think it’s got so much to do with who was here first but who’s doing it best,” says Dean. “We could be worse, but we’re still broken, y’know?”

Castiel watches Dean curl in on himself, not unlike the way that Sam does when he’s had too much of the world. Only, while Sam uses this tactic to escape from the problem, it appears to make Dean more tense.

“Sam had a few choice words about that too,” Castiel offers, now coming to sit beside Dean in the matching worn chair opposite his.

“Yeah, well, he would,” Dean shakes his head and leans back. “He’s got a bug up his ass when it comes to our old man.”

“No kidding,” Castiel removes his backpack and settles into his seat. “Is this all right?”

Dean looks at him again, sun catching him at an angle that illuminates every fleck of color in his eyes.

“What, you sitting with me on my uncle’s porch?” he asks, and Castiel shrugs. “Yeah, man, it’s cool. I like talking to you.”

Castiel smiles, “I’m fond of talking to you too, Dean, though I’m very sorry for the circumstance.”

“The circumstance?” Dean lets out a laugh. “Dude, it’s not your fault my dad’s a dick.”

“That is an egregious understatement in light of what I’ve heard from Sam,” says Castiel, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Okay, first of all, Sam’s been a pissy little shit lately, so I’d take anything he says with a grain of salt,” Dean sits forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Next, Sam and dad used to butt heads over everything, all right? It’s like they wanna piss each other off. Now Sam’s lashing out but dad’s not taking the bait, and that’s pissing off Sam even more.”

Just trying to follow that line of logic makes Castiel’s brain hurt.

“Look, our dad wasn’t the best, obviously,” says Dean. “But he wasn’t as bad as Sam makes him out to be. Dad cared about us, even if he showed it in weird ways. And I think his new family’s really done a lot of good for him, y’know? Hell, the guy’s been sober for years now. When he left us here he could barely stagger out the door.”

Dean slumps back, wicker crackling under his weight, “In the end, he did what he had to do for him, and he’s better for it.”

Castiel nods, information bouncing off the inside of his skull and trickling down into coherent thought. A couple runs through the filtration system and he finally asks, “How are you not furious?”

Dean frowns, “What?”

“What I mean is,” Castiel sits up. “I understand the train of thought, but he’s still your father. Aren’t you upset about him leaving you and Sam?”

“I was at first,” Dean shrugs, shifting again in his seat. “But after a while you just gotta move on, y’know? It’s a waste to be mad at the guy. Plus, Sam acts like dad wasn’t like this before our mom died. He’s not old enough to remember, but I do. Dad’s always been kind of an asshole, but our mom wasn’t, and if there was something in my dad that she saw and loved even though he was kind of a dick, then I figure I at least owe him that much.”

Castiel sits crisscross in the wicker seat, spine erect and ears perked as he watches Dean drift further and further back in time. By no means is Castiel an expert in the ways of body language or feelings, but the hurt slides off of Dean in thick sheets.

“How old were you when you lost your mother?” he asks.

“Four,” Dean’s eyes don’t leave the peeling paint on the gutter. “I know it’s not a big deal--”

“I disagree,” Castiel says, his muscles now loosening. “That’s an awful thing to go through at any age.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I remember her all that much,” Dean shrugs.

“You remember enough,” says Castiel. “I lost my father before I could remember anything about him. I couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a parent I actually knew.”

Dean shifts again at that and clears his throat, “I should probably get back to my apartment. Just came by to make sure these dodos have enough food in the fridge.”

“Dean--” Castiel reaches out to stop him just as Dean moves to stand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. We don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want.”

“No, it’s just,” Dean sits back. “Not stuff I like to think about, y’know? Feels kinda crappy when it comes out.”

“I don’t blame you,” Castiel says and looks down at his fingers. “If we don’t talk about it or think about it, can I hang out with you?”

Dean looks up, “You don’t have to meet Sam? I mean, I read him the riot act the other day. He won’t stand you up again.”

Castiel’s insides go warm, but he says nothing. Instead he fiddles with his phone between his fingers, wondering whether or not he should tell Sam not to bother with coming over after rehearsal is done.

“I’ll see him tomorrow,” he finally says, and Dean smiles.

“Okay, yeah,” he shrugs. “If you don’t mind waiting around at my place ‘til I get cleaned up.”

There are a million things Castiel could say, most of which involve him ‘helping’ Dean wash up, but he settles on a simple, “Not at all.”

 

* * *

 

The nerve endings in Gabriel’s fingers twitch as he holds the ladder steady under Sam’s weight. He’s not sure how pinning up vines and all this other _found natural material_ through the house is going to give people the impression that they’re in a forest instead of a crappy high school auditorium, but it’s Mr. Shurley’s production and thus Mr. Shurley’s problem. At least Gabriel didn’t get stuck with a boring job this time.

“So, how pissed would you be if I grabbed your ass right now?”

He can see Sam smiling all the way from here and, damn it, Gabriel basks in it.

How could he not?

“You better watch it,” Sam says. “I’m hanging with your brother after rehearsal.”

Gabriel doesn’t like the way that his muscles tense at that. It’s turning a very sexy set of fantasies he’s having into something shameful and wrong. Those are two things that should never be associated with sex--even when you’re into humiliation or something, done right it’s within a safe space with someone who doesn’t make you feel shameful and wrong for liking what you like.

That digression aside, Gabriel knows what he has to do.

“We should talk about it,” he says.

Sam’s hands pause around their work, but he doesn’t look away from the arrangement of leaves and twigs before him.

“Why?” he just asks.

Gabriel sighs, “Because you’re schtupping my brother and I’m currently in the middle of an elaborate fantasy that involves your dick in my mouth.”

It’s Sam’s turn to go rigid.

“Too graphic or not graphic enough?” Gabriel asks.

“Shut up,” Sam swats at him, nearly losing his balance in the process.

Gabriel puts a steadying hand on the small of his back, then notes, “Man, I coulda just delivered a life-saving ass grab.”

“Even though you’re the one who almost made me fall in the first place?” Sam asks, finally getting the dried up foliage to stay in its place on the wall.

“Okay, suddenly we’re holding close calls over people’s heads?” Gabriel looks up at Sam’s face. “Everyone starts taking into account all the horrible shit we almost caused and we’d all be in prison.”

“You’re so annoying,” Sam sighs. “Back up, I’m coming down.”

“I only heard two fifths of that sentence,” Gabriel bounces his eyebrows for good measure, leading Sam to roll his eyes again.

“Disgusting,” Sam shakes his head, a light in his eyes that makes Gabriel grin.

“Gabriel!”

Gabriel turns toward the stage, where Mr. Shurley flags him down.

“Duty calls, peaches,” Gabriel winks and Sam flips him off. He bounds down to the front of the house and leaps up onto the stage. “You rang?”  

“Yeah,” Mr. Shurley tucks his nubby pencil behind his ear and hands Gabriel a spare script kept until now under his own. “We gotta block this scene today and of course Krissy is out sick --”

“The nerve of some people,” Gabriel shakes his head.

“Shut up,” Mr. Shurley frowns. “Would you stand in and read for Puck? Then you can teach Krissy her blocking when she gets back.”

Gabriel takes the script with a sweeping bow, “Never visited upon me has such an honor been.”

“You’re not allowed to read in that Yoda voice either.”

“Aw, come on!” Gabriel throws the script down on the stage. Mr. Shurley only needs give him another scowl and immediately Gabriel grabs the script again and turns to the beginning of the scene. He mutters all the while, “No appreciation for artistic integrity…” and takes his place offstage.

Hannah stands close by, and upon seeing Gabriel with a script in his hands feels it necessary to remind him, “We’re staying until we block this scene, you know. Don’t make us stay here all night.”

“A horse, a horse!” Gabriel shouts. “My kingdom for a horse!”

“That’s the wrong play, dipshit!” he hears Sam shout from his place out in the house.

“No one asked you, She-Ra!” Gabriel calls back.

“Or you could continue your juvenile, asinine behavior,” Hannah sighs. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”

“Gabriel, will you just cooperate?” Mr. Shurley remarks. “You don’t have to read well, or read it at all. I just need the body in the scene.”

Bile rises in Gabriel’s throat, accompanied by a heavy weight sinking down into the bulk of his gut. The first line Puck has in this scene is a monologue, one that Gabriel vaguely recognizes from reading this play back in the seventh grade. Not to say that Gabriel paid a spectacular amount of attention back then either, but he knows about this play and knows about this character.

Moreover, he knows that he enjoys dicking around way too much to take this seriously.

“--which she must dote on in extremity,” Raphael recites his line, and as scripted direction, Gabriel steps onstage.

Upon seeing Raphael, feeling the stage lights on his skin, hearing the absolute silence out in the house against the dull roar of stage crew, something falls into place in Gabriel’s mind. Raphael isn’t Raphael anymore, nor is he Gabriel.

Right now, Gabriel’s a messenger to the fairy king, and he just fucked up big time without even realizing it.

In the second and a half he’s been on stage, adrenaline kicks in, and as soon as Oberon looks over at him, and declares, “Here comes my messenger,” Gabriel lights up.

“How now, mad spirit!” Oberon declares. “What night-rule now about this haunted grove?”

Gabriel trains his eyes on the words in front of him, synthesizing at a rate even he didn’t know he could, and puffs up, brimming with excitement as he reveals, “My mistress with a monster is in love.”

At Oberon’s raised eyebrows and (maybe?) a couple of chuckles, Puck kicks in and takes Gabriel through the explanation--the troupe of actors, the dickhead playing Pyramus, replacing said dickhead with a donkey’s head, the rest of the troupe running scared… He finishes, “I led them on in this distracted fear, and left sweet Pyramus translated there: when in that moment, so it came to pass,” Puck puffs back up again and with the most smug satisfaction he can muster, he grins, “Titania waked and straightaway loved an ass.”

There are more laughs from both the house and backstage. When Gabriel comes to, he realizes he’s in a completely different place from where he started, and he knows Mr. Shurley did not stop him once to tell him where or how to move.

Then he notes that he’s out of breath and covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

He’s been leaping around this stage like a total dick, hasn’t he?

But Raphael rolls with it. They deliver their lines easily to one another. Did he drug the Athenian dude who wouldn’t give that one chick the time of day? Yes, everything’s taken care of. Then they slink over to the side of the stage as Hermia and Demetrius--played by Ava and Kevin--enter.   

“Stand close. This is the same Athenian.”

Upon realizing his error, Puck and therefore Gabriel freezes.

“Uh… this is the woman,” he says. “But not this the man.”

As the scene goes on and Mr. Shurley stops them, records their crosses and places and has Hannah mark them accordingly with different colors of tape. They have to pause, start up, pause start from the top of the scene, pause, just the end now--it’s tedious and exhausting and the most fun Gabriel has had in a long-ass time.

"Holy shit," is the first thing Mr. Shurley decides to say to him. "What the hell was that?"

“Must you curse around the children?” asks Gabriel as he flips his script shut. He hands it to Mr. Shurley and shrugs, “What can I say? The camera loves me.”

“There’s no camera, moron,” Hannah comes up beside him.

“And no fun for anyone, apparently,” Gabriel whistles and gives her a swift look up and down. “What’s up, chuckles? They cancel your standup gig in Transylvania?”

“Gabriel, focus,” Mr. Shurley taps him on the shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me you had stage experience.”

Gabriel frowns, “Because I don’t? Unless you count that time I sang Frankie Valli to the chick I was dating while running through the bleachers.”

“That’s from 10 Things I Hate About You,” says Hannah.

“Oh, _now_ you get my movie references?”

“You and Lucifer were watching it while I was doing my homework last night,” Hannah frowns. “I repeatedly asked you to turn it down.”

“Well, maybe I forgot that part,” Gabriel snips back.

“Shut up!” Mr. Shurley shouts over them. “Sorry, I didn’t know how else to get your attention. Gabriel, you’ve never performed before?”

Gabriel shakes his head.

“How--you just did that?”

“Uh, yeah,” Gabriel crosses his arms over his chest. He thought he did okay, especially since he had to read off a piece of paper. So he’s not Robert freaking Redford. Who is?

… other than Robert Redford.

Shut up.

Sam’s up on stage now too, and between him, Mr. Shurley, and Hannah, Gabriel feels a hot viscous drip down his throat and coat his insides. He wants to be home. He wants to be home, in bed, in his pajamas, with his computer and a bag of chocolate covered pretzels.

“Mr. Shurley, can we replace Krissy?” Raphael asks--holy crap, when did he get all the way over here?

“Raphael, that’s not how we do things. Krissy’s already got the part,” Mr. Shurley folds his arms over his chest, radiating annoyance. “You can cold read Shakespeare like that and you didn’t audition?”

“Uh…”

“Never mind that,” Mr. Shurley continues, “You can cold read Shakespeare like that and you wrote Duran Duran lyrics on your last _Hamlet_ test?”

“Her name’s Ophelia, she dances on the sand,” Gabriel recites. “I made it relevant.”

Mr. Shurley’s words fail him. He throws up his hands, mouth gaping open and shut as he turns and walks back down to his seat in the house.

“What the fuck?” Sam finally says. Both he and Hannah still staring.

“Will everyone stop looking at me!” Gabriel exclaims.

“Dude, you’re really good,” Sam says, Hannah nodding now beside him.

Gabriel’s cheeks heat and he looks off over Hannah’s shoulder, “Yeah right.”

“Did you--” Sam lets out a laugh. “You don’t even know how awesome that was, do you?”

“What’s awesome about it?” Gabriel shrugs it off. “I just read some words and dicked around.”

“But it was funny!” Sam says.

“And well-done for a first read through,” Hannah adds.

Gabriel shifts and actually looks up into the scaffolding above the stage, but there’s no sign of the other shoe waiting to drop. Back to Sam and Hannah, Gabriel shifts and asks, “Really?”

“Yes!” Sam exclaims. “Dude, why would we lie about that?”

“Yeah, but you like me,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You _do_ , you walking pot of spaghetti. Don’t deny it.”

“Walking pot of spaghetti?” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Whatever!” Gabriel waves him away. “I’m running on endorphins, I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying.”

“Well, I don’t like you enough to lie, so,” Hannah shrugs.

“Liar, you love me.”

“Eh,” Hannah shrugs again. “That in no way means I like you. I certainly don’t like you enough to lie, and…” she sighs, as though picturing the both of them naked in every kama sutra position possible, “I have a feeling that Sam likes you too much to lie.”

Gabriel looks over to Sam, who just nods in agreement.

“All right, all right, I did a good thing, sheesh,” Gabriel stuffs his hands in his sweater pockets.

“There you go,” Hannah reaches out to give his shoulder an awkward pat. Around them everyone has started to pack up their bags and make sure that everything is in its rightful place for the next day. Hannah instructs, “Come on, I have to get to Michael’s to babysit. I have to take you home.”

“I can take him,” Sam says as Gabriel asks, “Michael trusts you with an infant?”

“More than he trusts you, apparently,” Hannah gets this smug smile on her face. “And more than he trusts Lucifer, but I suspect that’s because the last time Lucifer babysat he tried to leave him and Eve a set of riddles disclosing Noah’s location…”

Gabriel laughs, now basking in the memory, “Michael’s face got _so red_.”

“Why don’t you go?” asks Sam. “I can take Gabriel home. I was going over there anyway.”

The way he catches Gabriel’s eye over that statement is enough to put the fear of God in him. There’s a lecture behind those eyes, and Gabriel is not in the mood for that right now… or ever, now that he thinks about it.

“Very well,” Hannah affirms. “Gabriel, I’ll see you at home.”

“No, don’t go he’s gonna yell at me!” Gabriel calls after her, but she’s already off the stage and in the house. She’s got her bag in hand and one foot out the door by the time Sam asks, “Why would I yell at you?”

Gabriel whips around, “You’re going to give me the ‘you could do so much if you just _applied yourself_ ’ song and dance. Like I haven’t heard that eight thousand times.”

“Dude, I’m not going to lecture you,” Sam says. “I just thought I could give you a ride home.”

Gabriel narrows his eyes in a way that he’s seen his brother of millions of times, “I don’t believe you.”

“That sounds like a Gabriel problem, Gabriel,” Sam smirks and tosses his head toward the auditorium door. It’s hard for Gabriel to decline such an offer, benign though it may be, coming from such a sweet, pants-dropping face.

“Okay, but you’re not allowed to tell Cas anything about this,” says Gabriel.

“What about Hannah?”

“Hannah was here.”

“No, I mean,” Sam looks at Gabriel’s lips and wets his own (that wanton little tart), “Won’t she tell Cas?”

“Not likely,” Gabriel shakes his head. “Worst case scenario, she tells him through creepy twin telepathy. There’s something that happens when you bake in an oven with someone for that long… they say that the uterus changes a man.”

Sam puts his face in his hands.

Hey, at least he’s not making ‘Fuck Me’ eyes anymore.

The ride home is nothing but that: a ride home. Not a reverse cowgirl ride either, just a normal drive to Gabriel’s normal house, over normal roads while engaging in a radio station war which neither of them wins. Sam checks his phone while they walk up to the front door.

“Candy crush?” asks Gabriel. “Or are you a Bejeweled man?”

“Neither,” Sam mutters. “Colleges are already sending out acceptance letters, so, y’know. Obsessively checking my email every five minutes.”

“Oh yeah,” Gabriel nods. He applied to the school his dad works at, which means he’ll get in, and he’ll get to go for next to no extra expense on his part, but he keeps that to himself. Not only is it not of any relevance to Sam’s situation, it’s also going to launch Sam into a ‘don’t throw your future away’ speech--Gabriel can feel it.

“Also, Cas never texted me back,” says Sam. “When I told him rehearsal was running late.”

“Hmm,” is all Gabriel comes up with. College talk is bad enough, but pulling Cas back into this? It’s already bad enough that he doesn’t really have any friends of his own; why does the universe have to keep reminding him?

Once inside, Gabriel toes off his shoes by the door and slides his bag down beside them. He calls, “Olly olly oxen free!” up the stairs, but nobody responds.

Except, of course, Lucifer, who calls from the basement, “Shut _UP!”_

“Fuck you!” Gabriel strides over to the basement door and opens it wide. “Where’s Thing One?”

“Which one’s that?”

“The one that first emerged from the vag-cocoon.”

“Hannah’s babysitting,” Lucifer says.

“No, the other one,” Gabriel leans on the doorjamb.

“Hannah was extracted first, kiddo,” Lucifer calls.

“She was not!”

“Yes she was! Ask anyone in the house.”

“Sam is the only other person in the house right now, asswad,” Gabriel rolls his eyes.

“Who?”

“Thing One’s lab partner.”

“You can call Castiel ‘Thing One’ all you want, but he wasn’t born first.”

“Uh,” Sam interrupts, and Gabriel whips around.

“What’s up?”

“Why are you guys yelling?” Sam asks.

“What?” Lucifer shouts, so Gabriel calls back, “He’s asking why we’re yelling.”

“Telling him what?”

“ _Yelling_ , you deaf bastard!”

“God, close my door!” Lucifer shouts. “You’re so fucking annoying.”

“Whatever, putz,” Gabriel punctuates with a slammed door that shakes the whole wall. He looks back at Sam and is met by an unfamiliar gaze. His shoulders have gone rigid, his hands curled into fists, and his Adam’s apple bobbing like mad in his throat. “You okay?”

“Me--what about you?” Sam asks. “Did you two get in a fight earlier or something?”

Gabriel frowns, “... no?”

“Sounded like it,” Sam’s shoulders go loose, but the rest of him remains poised and ready for defense.

“That’s just how we talk,” Gabriel shrugs.

“You yell?” Sam asks.

“You think that was yelling?” Gabriel laughs. “Come back during Passover next month. You think we’re angry now, you should see us all off of leavened bread.”

He shoves his hands back into his sweater pockets and warns Sam, “Brace yourself,” and then cranes his head up the stairwell to shout, “Calling out to Castiel, come in Castiel!”

Nothing.

“Maybe he’s got his headphones in,” Gabriel sighs and beckons him along upstairs. They get to Castiel’s room at the end of the hall and knock a few times, but just as the lack of response would suggest, his room is empty when they check.

“Guess he’s out,” Gabriel purses his lips and shuts the door. He’s only barely turned back to invite Sam to stay for dinner if he’s got the time when he’s met with Sam’s mouth on his.

Huh.

He wraps his arms around Sam’s neck and deepens the kiss, stumbling back until they’ve reached his door. There’s always time to do this too, Gabriel supposes.

 

* * *

 

The slam of the door probably isn’t as loud as Sam thinks it is, but every single one of his senses skyrockets as Gabriel’s tongue slides against his. He’s been holding back since the last time they did this, but after this afternoon he couldn’t hold back anymore.

Gabriel is a high-energy maniac, bordering on unforgivably annoying nine times out of ten, but up on stage he was unreal. His eyes glazed over and his entire vibe changed. Sam had never seen him move so easily, so naturally, like he had a purpose and his world finally made sense. He downright _radiated_.

And now they’re in Gabriel’s room, with Gabriel’s arms around Sam’s shoulders, and Gabriel’s emerging erection in very close proximity to Sam’s own.

Sam may not want to talk about this, but that doesn’t mean he’s not more than willing to keep doing it.

There’s an urgency behind this that Sam hasn’t felt with anybody else. The way Gabriel grips his hair and pushes him back onto the bed quickens Sam’s pulse; when Gabriel kneels on the ground in front of him, Sam thinks he may have just died and gone to heaven.

Gabriel’s dark blond hair sticks up every which way, molded by the pull of Sam’s fingers as they’ve tangled around the strands, his face speaks volumes that words never could. A smile stretches across his face as he pushes his way between Sam’s knees. It wouldn’t come as any surprise if it turned out that Gabriel can read minds, and has been basking in every single one of Sam’s dirty thoughts about the two of them. After all, Gabriel can do much more than people might think.

Like getting Sam’s pants open without calling even the slightest bit of attention to himself, for instance.

“What oh what could I do with you?” Gabriel muses, more to Sam’s groin than to himself. It sets Sam wriggling in his skin and leaves him entirely too constricted by his clothing.

Gabriel’s eyes flit up to meet Sam’s, “So many possibilities.”

Sam’s eyelids flutter shut as Gabriel mouths over his thighs, body jolting toward the thick, damp heat. If he thought he was hard before, it’s nothing compared to now. His skin has officially become too tight. He can even feel his nipples pebble as though they’re exposed to the open air rather than layered under his t-shirt and sweatshirt. There’s something electric in him--Sam felt it when they fooled around a couple days ago just as strongly as he feels it now.

Gabriel’s fingers ruck up Sam’s shirt so he can finally get mouth-on-skin. Everything feels like fire--Gabriel’s lips, his tongue, his hands, even the very tips of his hair leave prickly trails of heat in their wake.

Whatever instincts Sam’s body has kick in and send his hips up so Gabriel can get his pants down. His cock springs out and slaps back against his stomach, pulling a soft whimper out of Sam’s throat.

“Damn, kid,” Gabriel breathes. “You’re packin’ some serious heat, y’know that?”

There is apparently enough blood in his body to blush _and_ make his dick even stiffer. He’s already leaked a little pool of precome onto his belly, and Gabriel’s breath dragging over his too-hot, too-sensitive skin is definitely to blame.

Gabriel slides a finger from the base of Sam’s erection all the the way up to the very tip, and Sam makes some unholy noise that he's only ever heard come out of tinny laptop speakers in the dead of night. Their eyes meet, and even though neither speaks, Sam swallows and nods.

He’s so hot and fit to be tied that even the flat press of Gabriel’s tongue against his shaft is enough to make him tense and bite his lips shut.

_Get a grip, Sam, holy crap._

Except Sam can’t because Gabriel’s entire mouth engulfs his cock and he moans around him like he’s the best thing that’s ever passed his lips. Each move is calculated, deliberate, sensations varying until he finds the combination that Sam likes best. Not that Sam can really process anything other than the pull in his stomach and the pounding of his heart.

Hands down, it’s the best blowjob Sam has ever received.

It also happens to be the quickest.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sam squeezes out all too soon, his fingers tangling back up in Gabriel’s downright yankable hair. Gabriel’s one hand holds Sam’s cock steady, the other skates somewhere up Sam’s shirt, scratching faint pink trails into his torso.

Sam’s orgasm completely suckerpunches him. He gets no warning, no time to draw in a breath, no indication to brace himself whatsoever--just the warm liquid rush of release.

He doesn’t move, only lies still for a couple minutes to catch his breath. He realizes that he’d bitten down on his wrist as he’d come on Gabriel’s tongue, and that there’s a strain in his vocal cords that absolutely was not there earlier this afternoon. Hopefully, nobody will see the angry red teeth marks in his skin.

“Anyone ever tell  you how crazy hot you are?” Gabriel’s voice floods his ears, and only then does he open his eyes. That weight on his thigh is Gabriel’s head, that warmth in his chest obviously a side effect of the Cheshire Cat grin blaring so brazenly back at him.

“Good morning, starshine,” Gabriel says, and Sam grins, offering them only a moment’s rest before he springs forward and tackles them both onto the floor.

Sam doesn’t give Gabriel the chance to speak. He crushes their mouths together and snakes his tongue between a mash of teeth and lips. For as gross as Sam initially found it, he’s really starting to like how he tastes in Gabriel’s mouth--so much so that his dick gives a rallying, interested twitch from below.

They break apart, their eyes now fixed on one another as they try to catch their breath. Thin rings of golden brown surround two voids of black; long fingers dig into the meat of Sam’s shoulders and a stiff erection presses insistently against his thigh.

With deft movements, Sam undoes Gabriel’s jeans and dips his hand under the worn denim.

“You’re not wearing underwear,” Sam says more than asks. It’s not a question, after all, just an observation of a very blatant fact.

“No, I’m not,” Gabriel licks his lips and raises his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

“You were last time,” Sam replies with another observation.

“And?”

“Which time was the outlier?”

“That’s a question for a time when you don’t have your hand on my dick,” Gabriel’s eyes squinch shut as his hips roll into the curve of Sam’s palm.

It is a very nice dick, Sam makes yet another observation, but keeps it to himself. He backs away from Gabriel’s mouth and goes further down, so he can get a clearer view. Gabriel fits so perfectly in Sam’s hand and responds so well to each and every touch. A bead of precome forms just at the tip, and Sam licks his lips.

He is in no way skilled at blowjobs, even for a beginner. Cas is better than him, and Gabriel--god, Gabriel knocked it out of the friggin’ park. But Sam is too dumb with an orgasm and hormones to worry about making a fool out of himself. He situates himself further down, holds Gabriel steady, and dives right in.

Somehow, it’s not as difficult as it’s been before. Gabriel sighs, sending light shudders up Sam’s spine, and twirls his fingers in Sam’s hair. It’s just as strange as he expected, but with Gabriel’s surprisingly soft vocalizations on the other side it becomes more and more pleasant.

With the utterance, “That feels so good, Sam,” it becomes a contest: how much can he pull out of Gabriel?

It’s nice to know you’re doing well, Sam’s always felt. When someone with a mouth like that starts complimenting your blowjob skills, though? Sam is going to milk that for all it’s worth.

He tries what he can, working around his despicable gag reflex. Sometimes he’ll get another ‘so good’, or an ‘oh god’, or even a ‘holy fuck’, but the best are the noises that never quite become words. Those grow in frequency the closer Gabriel edges toward coming.The fingers in his hair wind tighter, the pitches of the sounds draw out longer, breathier.

A sharp tug on his hair sends Sam up, panting through swollen, spit-covered lips, “ow”. Gabriel drops his hands and smacks his head back against the carpet, thrusting into Sam’s now steady hand.

“You shithead,” Gabriel whines. “I was _right there_.”

“Don’t pull on my hair, then,” Sam leans up and nips him on the chin, sending Gabriel squirming.

“Don’t suck dick like a champ, then,” he still manages. Sam soaks up the praise and speeds his hand, heart hammering at the slick slide in his palm and the long fingers bringing him back down for another kiss.

As he did before, Gabriel hangs onto Sam for dear life as soon as his hips stutter and orgasm hits. He moans into Sam’s mouth as his come shoots all over his belly and Sam’s hand, breathes shakily against him as the aftershocks shiver through his body. His limbs go boneless and heavy, but that doesn’t keep him from rolling Sam over and climbing on top of him, and it certainly doesn’t keep them from lazily making out on the floor.

“Un-fuckin’-believable,” Gabriel finally declares, and Sam smiles.

“Yeah?”  

“Fuck yeah,” Gabriel combs his fingers through Sam’s hair. “So. Pleasure doing business with you again, sir.”

Sam snorts, “No kidding,” and brings Gabriel down into another kiss. He doesn’t miss the way Gabriel so easily complies, how much more deliberate and pliable his movements become. It’s nice, having Gabriel’s weight on top of him. It’s nice having those long fingers drag through his hair, and those kiss-bitten lips mold against his.

Warmth floods Sam’s core and he laughs, “You’re gonna kill me.”

Gabriel snorts and sits up, dick hanging out of his open fly as he reaches down to grab Sam’s. A jolt runs through him, though the touch is light, and Gabriel says, “I’m gonna have to ride this dick before I do that.”

Sam swallows, remaining afterglow seeping out of his cheeks, “What’s that now?”

“I said,” Gabriel leans back in close to Sam’s ear only to shout, “I’m gonna ride your dick someday!”

“Shut up!” Sam laughs and tries to cover Gabriel’s mouth. They roll around on Gabriel’s floor, one pushing and the other pulling until one’s back is on the floor. A quick pause for a kiss turns into a makeout break, like they’re a couple of horny teenagers or something.

And then Sam realizes that that’s exactly what they are. He brings them to a halt with Gabriel laughing despite having both his wrists pinned to the carpet. The laughter stops, but the smile takes longer to leave Gabriel’s face. Before he can go from neutral to worried, Sam bends down and catches his lips in another kiss. It’s so deliciously deep that they both forget to breathe, and only end up breaking it off to gasp in some air.

He’s so--not pretty, not handsome, not even hot. He’s good-looking, but that’s not what this is. Sam’s seen good-looking. Gabriel? Gabriel is magnetic. He’s a presence that brightens any room he’s in, and one whose absence is more than noticeable.  

Sam strokes the backs of his fingers over Gabriel’s cheek, about to open his mouth (despite not having anything to say) when his stomach belches out an indignant growl. Gabriel snorts nips him on the chin.

“Should be dinnertime,” he says. “You wanna stay? My mom makes enough to feed an army.”

Sam must be making a face, because Gabriel asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” Sam shrugs and moves off of Gabriel. “I just didn’t think anyone’s mom actually made dinner at a specific time every night.”

“Ugh, right?” Gabriel sits up. “Move over, Mrs. Cleaver.”

Sam chuckles, only for his stomach to grumble again.

“Okay, c’mon,” Gabriel stands and holds out a hand for Sam to take. “You’re staying.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Sam asks. Not many people can pull Sam to his feet anymore, at least not without serious participation from him, but Gabriel seems to manage it just fine.

“Okay?” Gabriel laughs and looks Sam up and down. “Look at you, you’re skin and bones.”

He emphasizes this by grabbing the loose clothing around Sam’s waist and pulling back tight, “See? You’re my mother’s goddamn wet dream. She’ll feed you ‘til you pop.”

Sam’s stomach growls again, this time with inhuman anticipation. So, Sam smiles and nods, “Sounds good.”

It only takes one look at one another to realize just how debauched they really look. Gabriel’s come has now started to dry not only on Gabriel, but on Sam as well. So, while Gabriel swaps out his shirt for another, Sam makes a useless attempt to remove the stain from his sweatshirt.

“FYI, you just had a dick in your mouth,” says Gabriel. “Trying to clean up come with beej spit might not yield desired results.”

“You got a better idea?” Sam asks, only to have Gabriel snatch it from him.

“You run interference at the dinner table and I’ll pop this in the washing machine,” Gabriel says. “Don’t tell anyone I’m doing laundry, though. If word gets out that I’m not a total leech they’ll start to expect things of me.”

Sam snorts and raises his right hand, “Promise.”

 

* * *

 

Cas can put away a burger like nobody’s business.

He can also chug a full soda in under thirty seconds, which would gross Dean out if he had any semblance of table manners whatsoever. All done with their food, Cas had insisted on finishing his soda before they left. The resulting belch that comes a minute later sends them both into peals of laughter.

“Dude, that was _awesome_ ,” Dean grins, despite the shade thrown by the old guy at the table next to theirs. “Where the hell did you learn how to do that?”

“I have three brothers, Dean,” Cas replies. “Not to mention, I have plenty of practice in keeping my throat open.”

The old guy coughs and mutters something Dean only catches part of, but wishes he hadn’t heard. Maybe that one is on Dean, since he’s the one who insisted that they take a table at Sonic instead of eating in the car. Next time he’ll risk getting ketchup on the seats if it means weird old dudes won’t stare him down.

Like…he can’t know, right? This old guy can’t know that Dean’s been one bad decision away from jumping Cas’ bones all afternoon, right? Nobody could know that, unless they read minds, and, not to make snap judgements, but Potbelly McFuckface doesn’t look telepathic in any way.

“You ready to go?” Dean asks, doing his best not to appear too freaked out. Cas nods, and together they pick up the greasy paper remains of their dinner and toss them into the waiting garbage cans.

They parked in the lot across the street, not because there was no room here, but because across the street lies an arcade, and in this arcade Dean intends on converting a week’s worth of pay into quarters and having the fuck at it.

“All right, so what’s your deal?” Dean asks as they enter the dimly-lit den of electric pings and the cystic acne-ridden faces of pubescent young teens.

“I’ve never been here,” says Cas.

“No?”

“Well, my mother was very insistent that arcades were cesspools of disease.”

Dean snorts, “Yeah, arcades and everything else in this world. We can bail if you want, do something else.”

“No,” Cas shakes his head. “No, I’d like to play here.”

Dean can’t help the smile that comes with his, “Awesome.”

After each taking a turn at the change machine, their pants now close to sagging with quarters, Dean and Cas both survey the available games.

Cas points to the air hockey table and asks, “What’s that?”

“Oh man, okay c’mere,” Dean grabs Cas by the sleeve and drags him over. “So, you take these things,” Dean grabs the pushers out from under the table, “And you use ‘em to shoot the puck into the other person’s slot.”

“Buy me a drink first,” comes spewing out of Cas’ mouth, followed by his eyes going wide as he concludes, “I am spending way too much time with Gabriel and Lucifer.”

Hopefully, it’s dark enough that Cas can’t see the flush staining Dean’s cheeks.

Dean slides quarters into the machine, sending Cas leaping out of his skin when the air suddenly spews up out of the table.

“Glad to see you find cardiac arrest humorous,” Cas shakes his head, a smile quirking the ends of his mouth. Even after Dean’s laughter dies down, his body still thrums with utter disbelief that this is actually happening.

He’s hanging out with Cas and they’re having fun.

Even if Cas declares the machine to be ‘of the Devil’ when the puck starts to skate along the surface with no intervention from either human.

“Okay, you just push it,” Dean demonstrates when the puck gets close enough to hit. He goes at a testing speed, which lets Cas track the puck carefully before he hits it back.

“All right, that’s pretty fun,” Cas grins, all teeth and gums.

“Ready for full speed?” Dean asks, and Cas nods. He shoots the puck back at maybe half his regular speed, until they’ve built up a rhythm. Cas’ tongue pokes out from between his lips as he tries to match Dean’s increasing speed, and in a total bonehead move shoots the puck into his own goal.

“Son of a bitch!” Cas wilts as Dean begins to laugh again. With raw determination, Cas sends the puck down toward Dean. “Okay, very funny. I’m kind of a spaz.”

“Aw, don’t sell yourself short,” Dean hits it back. “You’re a total spaz.”

He doesn’t even get the chance to laugh at his own cleverness before the sound of the puck scraping through his goal hits his ears. Dean looks up, only to see Cas with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Come on, Dean,” he shakes his head. “I’ve played air hockey before.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, “You little shit. Were you hustling me?”

“Depends,” Cas shrugs. “What exactly would I have been hustling you for?”

Even across the darkened room, Dean can see Cas’ eyes boring into his.

He swallows, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

Which prompts Cas to shrug and suggest, “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

And damn if that doesn’t make Dean’s throat go dry.

They finish their first game with Cas taking the win (by one point, okay? _One_ point), and promptly start a second. This time, Dean pulls out all the stops, because twenty-two year old adult human beings are totally allowed to get this competitive about air hockey.

Totally allowed.

In fact, he just scores his third point when Cas’ phone starts to ring. He checks the screen and frowns.

“Mom?” Dean asks.

“Sister,” Cas swipes the call through and answers, “Hannah?”

Dean can’t make out what’s going on, but he can hear the voice on the other end coming through very faintly.

“When do they get home?” Cas asks. “... no, I’m not--Hannah, I’m not at home, I don’t have a car… I’m hanging out with a friend… What? _No_ …  Yes I do… Yes I _do_ , Hannah!”

Cas looks over at Dean and rolls his eyes.

“I’m going to help you on principle,” he concludes. “... _Fine_ , just keep him as calm as you can.”

He hangs up and looks across the table, “I hate to cut this short, but my sister is babysitting our nephew and apparently he won’t stop crying.”

“How old is he?” Dean asks, ignoring the way the center of his chest goes a little soft at the thought of Cas having a nephew.

“Not old enough to have been left alone with my sister,” is all Cas says. “I hate to ask, but would you mind giving me a ride? My brother doesn’t live too far from here.”

“Sure, man,” Dean nods, “Lemme  just--”

To finish their game, Castiel slides the puck into his goal a few more times and announces, “There, you’re the winner.”

“I was gonna say ‘lemme take a piss first’,” Dean snorts. “But thanks, that was nice of you.”

Cas flips him off.

True to Cas’ word, his brother’s place isn’t too far from where they were. After Cas’ descriptions of the house fall flat, however, Dean’s only option is to scan each driveway until he finds the one with--yup, there it is.

That piece of shit station wagon.

“Man, please bring that thing back to me,” Dean shakes his head as he parks out by the curb.

“Why? It runs fine,” Cas shrugs.

“No, I know,” Dean says as they get out of his car. “I’m just so embarrassed for you every time I see it.”

Cas says nothing to that, just gives him a long hard look over the Impala and asks, “Where are you going?”

“Oh,” Dean shrinks. “I was… gonna come in with you. Habit, I guess. Sorry.”

“No, it’s all right,” Cas insists. “You can come in for a minute if you like. You can meet Hannah.”

From all he’s heard about Hannah, Dean’s not so sure that’s the incentive Cas means it to be.

They can already hear the baby wailing from outside, way before they get to the door. Before Cas has time to grab his keys, the door swings open to reveal what is absolutely the female carbon copy of Cas.

“Hours,” is all she says. “How can anything cry for that long?”

“Maybe because you called him an ‘anything’ instead of an ‘anyone’,” Cas suggests and holds out his arms. They’re not even over the threshold yet, and Cas already has an arm full of infant.

The kid is cute, if you like red-faced snotty rolly-polly babies. Fortunately, Dean is one such person.

“Who are you?”

Dean looks up from the baby to see Hannah staring right back at him.

“This is Dean,” Cas introduces. “Dean, this is my sister Hannah.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dean holds out a hand, only to be met with an even more intense stare than Castiel’s.

“Dean is Sam’s older brother,” says Cas. That holds more significance than it should, judging by the look on Hannah’s face.

“Sam’s brother,” she repeats.

Dean nods.

“The one who fixed the car.”

Dean nods again.

“You were hanging out with him?” Hannah asks.

“Indeed I was,” Cas replies. By now the baby’s cries have softened from enraged wails to displeased whimpers, while Hannah’s eyelids flutter shut.

“I’m not of sound enough mind to deal with this,” she says. “I have to lie down.”

With that, she’s gone.

“I’d better go in with her,” says Cas, baby now crying into his shoulder. “This is Noah, by the way.”

“Hey, Noah,” Dean smiles. It catches Noah’s attention long enough to quiet him a little more. “Auntie Hannah’s kind of a buzzkill, isn’t she?”

“Oy, please don’t pit the baby against her,” Cas shakes his head. “Believe me, he has a lifetime of buzzkills ahead of him in this family. Let him enjoy his infancy.”

“Fair enough,” Dean smirks, and then mouths the word _‘buzzkill’_ once more so Noah can see it.

“You know I can see you too, right?” Cas asks.

“Yup.”

“Charming,” Cas shakes his head.

It only just occurs to him that they’re close enough for Dean to ‘accidentally’ lean forward and give Cas a kiss goodnight.

“Anyway, I’d better hit the road,” Dean clears his throat and takes a step back. “Let you get all this under control.”

Cas nods and readjusts Noah against his chest. He says, “I had a lot of fun. Thank you for hanging out with me.”

“Dude, same here,” Dean grins. “I always have fun with you.”

Why does that come out like a deep, dark confession? Or, maybe it doesn’t and Dean just thinks it does. Fuck, he’s going to go into a full blown panic if he’s not careful. He’s already starting to feel the anxiety sweats coming on. If he doesn’t get off this doorstep like yesterday, he’s going to end up soaking through his shirt and stinking up the air with stress hormones.

Jesus, ‘stress hormones’? He is not a friggin’ pack animal, what is his issue?

“Um, bye,” is all his brain will say. He turns on his heel, ready to bolt for the car, but Cas grabs his shoulder.

This time, it’s Dean who nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Sorry,” Cas breathes into a little smile. “Just. Next weekend is your LARP thing in the park, isn’t it?”

Oh.

Duh.

“Um, yeah,” Dean’s vocal chords spaz around the words. “Maybe. I don’t know. Let me ask Charlie and I’ll let you know.”

“Okay,” Cas smiles. “Because I’m going to need some clothes before then.”

“Right,” Dean nods, the white noise in his brain crackling like electricity.

“Maybe you could come with me,” Cas suggests.

If Dean doesn’t pee himself right now, he must have a titanium bladder.

“Sure,” Dean says back. “Um. Sounds fun.”

“Okay,” Cas smiles.

“Right.”

“Cool. See you later.”

“Later.”

“For God’s sake, stop it!” Hannah bellows from the other room. “End this!”

Cas rolls his eyes, but mouths ‘goodnight’ one more time before he shuts the front door.

Dean swears his car floats all the way back to his apartment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psst thank you all for being so understanding and supportive while I'm on semi-mostly-hiatus. I'm still around and lurking, and I see all the kind things you say, so just know that I'm so very appreciative.


	6. Chapter 6

“Is there a reason you didn’t turn in your essay?”

Gabriel looks up from his DS, the string of his hoodie in his mouth and a bud of glee in his chest at the sharp ire in Mr. Shurley’s voice.

“Of course there is,” he replies. “You’re just not gonna like it.”

Just as he intends to go back to his game, Mr. Shurley snatches the console from his hands and snaps it shut.

“Hey, I was playing with that!” he scowls and moves to grab it, but Mr. Shurley smacks onto the desk not the console, but a half sheet of paper that details the prompt of his neglected assignment.

“Take out some paper,” he instructs. “You’ve got an hour to give me something--anything--that I can put in my gradebook.”

“God,” Gabriel whips his hood off of his head, “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re not passing my class right now,” says Mr. Shurley. “You’re not passing my class even though I _know_ you’re more than capable.”

“So don’t fail me,” Gabriel shrugs, whipping open his worn spiral notebook.

But a dark cloud settles over room 114-B as Mr. Shurley comes forward and plants his hands on the sides of Gabriel’s desk, “I cannot with a clean conscience let you pass my class if you don’t do any of the work.”

“Then don’t pass me!” Gabriel exclaims. “Christ, it’s not like any of this matters.”

“Maybe not,” says Mr. Shurley. “But it’s what’s happening to you right here, right now, and even if it is pointless, I know you can do it. I know you’re smarter than this, Gabriel. I _know_ you are.”

Gabriel’s eyes burn faintly in their sockets, so he trains them on the whiteboard just behind Mr. Shurley and says nothing. He must sense he struck some sort of nerve, though, as he rights himself and lets out a sigh.

“I’ll have someone on stage crew come get you when your time is up,” he says and starts on his way down to the auditorium.

“You sure you trust me to be in here alone?” Gabriel raises his eyebrows.

Mr. Shurley looks at him, almost all the way out the door, and replies with staggering frankness, “I do.”

Gabriel frowns as the door clicks shut, and for once finds himself enshrouded in complete silence. Testing the waters, he decides to get up from his desk and walk over to the door. When he opens it, he finds nobody standing guard, nobody even in the vicinity--just an empty hallway and more silence.

Gabriel shuts the door and goes to scoop everything into his backpack. He’s about had it up to here with this bullshit. He doesn’t plan on going to college, doesn’t plan on doing anything, as a matter of fact. His immediate future isn’t nicely paved, like Michael’s or Lucifer’s or Anna’s was, or like Castiel and Hannah’s most certainly will be. He’s blind as to what his next step is, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t involve--he picks up the essay prompt.

“‘Explore the theme of suicide in the play--’ Chuck, come _on”,_ he groans, and continues. “‘Consider how Hamlet views suicide. What is the significance of his belief that, though we are capable of suicide, we choose to live through the suffering and strife anyway?’ 2-3 pages.’”

Gabriel crumples up the prompt and hurls it at the whiteboard. What kind of asinine assignment is that? Gabriel is barely hanging on by a thread most days. How exactly is writing a 2-3 page essay about suicide supposed to help him? Mr. Shurley is either the most oblivious teacher on record, or he’s _trying_ to thin the herd.

There’s a cup of dry erase markers on the front desk. Gabriel stalks over and takes the boldest, reddest one and strikes it across the whiteboard.

… it’s out of ink. Gabriel tosses that one aside and goes through marker after marker until one finally throws him a bone and makes bold, vivid green lines on the surface.

“Jesus, Chuck,” Gabriel shakes his head. “I know you live on a teacher’s salary, but come on, what are these things, eight bucks? Christ…”

Just as he’s about to write something appropriately witty on the board (his favorites so far are ‘Chuck You, MotherChucker’ and ‘Chuck my Dick’), his eyes fall on the crumpled paper on the floor. Whatever shapes his brain wants him to make, his hand starts writing Hamlet’s soliloquy.

“To be or not to be,” Gabriel recites as his hand flies through the words. “That _is_ the question, my friend.”

His hand moves easily through almost the entire thing, stopping only once or twice to check the book on Mr. Shurley’s desk. He’s heard the damn things so many times over twelve years of public schooling that it’s more ingrained than the preamble to the Constitution at this point.

At least nobody’s trying to use _Hamlet_ to defend or attack marriage rights or gun ownership.

His thoughts flow more easily at the board than they do on paper. Here he can make his letters larger, engage so much more of his body than he can sitting at a desk that was clearly made in the 1800s when everyone was on average an inch shorter than they are today. He’s seen iPads with more surface area than that thing.

He doesn’t register the cramp in his hand or the dull ache in the arches of his feet. He doesn’t see his writing get smaller at the edge of the board, and only notices how crooked his lines are when they all start to run together.

A very familiar “Holy crap,” startles Gabriel back into the classroom and he whips around.

He lets out a relieved breath. “Heya, Sammy,” he greets. “Scared the crap outta me.”

Sam smiles and looks down at the room key between his fingers. Gabriel almost hates himself for how beautiful Sam is, as though it’s something he has any control over whatsoever.

“Mr. Shurley said to come up and get you,” he looks back up. “What the hell are you doing?”

Gabriel looks back at the board, all cramped with chicken scratch and play quotations. “Uh,” he grabs the back of his neck. “I think I was writing an essay.”

“Oh,” Sam nods. “You know, most people write those on paper.”

“Ha-ha,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You’re too funny.”

“I like to think so,” Sam smirks.

“Whatever,” Gabriel puts the cap on the dry erase pen and replaces it in the cup. “I’m done with it anyway. How’s rehearsal going?”

“More or less the same as usual,” Sam sits behind Mr. Shurley’s desk up front. “Krissy’s still out, Hannah’s cracking the whip, Mr. Shurley might be insane.”

“Sounds about right,” Gabriel nods.  

Sam grins and rolls forward in the clunky office chair, not stopping until he’s close enough to wrap his arms around Gabriel’s waist.

“Hey-oh!” Gabriel tenses under the touch. “Whatcha got there, sailor?”

Sam laughs into his stomach, “What?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel confesses. His head is full of Hamlet and now he’s got Sam octopussing him. Today was just supposed to be a regular day, damn it. Now he’s doing schoolwork and canoodling? Fuck that.

Stupid Mr. Shurley.

“You okay?” Sam asks, and Gabriel nods before he can think to be honest. He removes Sam’s hands from around him and pushes him back behind the desk. Just when Sam’s eyes swell up to puppy dog size, Gabriel bends down and pulls him into a kiss.

“Hands on the armrests,” he instructs, just a hair’s breadth away from Sam’s lips. “Or no dice. Comprende?”

A new flush creeps up over Sam’s cheeks as he nods, and Gabriel kisses him again.

Fifteen minutes and two aching jaws later, Sam and Gabriel straighten out one another’s clothes through happy, sated kisses. Sam’s fingers linger in the folds of Gabriel’s sweatshirt, his smile goes soft, kind, like there’s something he knows that Gabriel doesn’t. It’s a look that simultaneously makes Gabriel want to lean into it as much as it makes him want to run at full speed in the opposite direction.

Gabriel blames the orgasm. He’s much more susceptible to the wiles of attractive people when he’s all loosened up and slap-happy.

Sam’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and Gabriel takes the opportunity to pull himself away and finish tidying the mess of markers he left by the board.

“Oh, god,” Sam groans and flops back down into the chair. “Oh my god…”

“What’s your god doing, exactly?” Gabriel asks.

“You think Mr. Shurley will care if I use his computer?” Sam scoots forward and wakes up the ancient contraption.

“What for?” Gabriel asks again.

“My friend Sarah just texted me,” Sam replies. “She said she got into Stanford, which means--” he takes a big breath. “Which means my status should be updated too.”

Gabriel replaces all of the markers in the cup, a little kernel of anxiety now wedged in his brain alongside everything else. Sam’s hands shake, his cheeks remain pink. Whatever trembling Gabriel had caused before is now replaced with the same tremble Anna had when she was checking her own college acceptances.

He watches Sam sit back in Mr. Shurley’s chair, watches him stare at the screen like it’s one of the living dead. He looks at Gabriel, eyes wide and chest rising and falling with every breath.

“I got in,” he says.

Gabriel realizes he’s not having the appropriate reaction when Sam repeats, “I got into _Stanford_ , man.”

“Hot diggity damn!” Gabriel ejects, despite the fact that his chest feels like it’s just been chiseled open. He’s having a heart attack, isn’t he? Panic attack? Maybe. Still, it doesn’t stop him from saying, “That’s incredible, Sam. See? You had nothing to worry about.”

Sam springs up from his chair and wraps his arms around Gabriel, picking him up and swinging him around _without_ having asked if he could do so.

“Manhandle, much?” Gabriel smacks him as soon as Sam sets him on the ground. He’d give him hell, but Sam brings him in for another kiss. The joy is infectious, Gabriel finds, as the buttery warm feeling rolls off of Sam and onto him.

He can indulge in a celebratory kiss, right? Plus, Sam deserves it. The guy works hard, the guy works smart, and that’s exactly the kind of thing you do when you’re going places.

Going places like Stanford, all the way out in California.

Sam breaks their kiss and runs his fingers through Gabriel’s hair one more time before he pulls away.

“I gotta tell Dean and Bobby,” he says. “Meet you in the auditorium?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel nods. “Sure thing.”

Gabriel grabs his backpack from his desk and slings it over his shoulder. They exit the room, Gabriel off to join the rest of drama club for rehearsal and Sam deciding to stay up in the hallway and call Dean and Bobby right there.

Sam is going places.

Maybe that’s what makes the nooks and crannies between Gabriel’s heart and his lungs turn to chasms in his chest.

Sam is going places, and he’s not.

Down in the auditorium, the actors run through the last scene of the play. They’re still about a week or so away from their first tech rehearsal, but Mr. Shurley isn’t letting anyone slack off in the mean time.

Gabriel’s starting to wonder if he should pull a Cher Horowitz and start looking for another eligible teacher to set him up with--if not for a romantic entanglement, then at least to find him a drinking buddy or something. Nobody’s this wound up unless they’re outright miserable.

Gabriel tiptoes down the aisle and through the rows of seats until he takes the one beside Mr. Shurley.

“I have been retrieved,” he says.

Mr. Shurley doesn’t take his eyes off the stage, but does point out, “I sent Sam to get you almost half an hour ago.”

“Uh, yeah,” Gabriel clears his throat. “He’s on the phone upstairs. College acceptance time: it’s like Christmas for these nerds.”

“No college for you?” Mr. Shurley asks.

“Nope,” Gabriel shakes his head. “When you got a body like this, brains are obsolete.”

“All right let’s stop there, guys!” Mr. Shurley calls to the actors up on stage. “Everyone take five and then we’re gonna go back to the third act--and no whining, jeez!”

The chorus of groans is impossible for most to ignore, but Mr. Shurley somehow does it. He turns fully in his chair, his stare calculating in a way that rocks Gabriel to his foundation.

“I get there’s a lot of reasons not to go to college,” he says. “Completely legitimate reasons, man, I get it. But I can’t help but think you’re doing yourself a disservice.”

“Ho-ho,” Gabriel leans back in his chair, “Do me a favor and take the road less traveled on that one, Frost, ‘cause I’ve heard it a million times.”

“Not by not going to college, Gabriel,” Mr. Shurley sighs, as though he knows he’s said the wrong thing for the umpteenth time today. “College is expensive as hell and, take it from someone who took nearly ten years to get through school, it’s not always gonna lead you to greener pastures.”

He gestures to the cracked walls and the broken seats around them, the students onstage who are chewing gum and playing on their phones, the other students going through stress-induced alopecia as they frantically compile their notes for their upcoming AP exams.

“Goddamn, that’s bleak,” Gabriel shakes his head.

“Exactly,” Mr. Shurley agrees. “Gabriel, the disservice you’re doing to yourself is thinking you’re not smart enough to go to college. By all means, don’t go. I really don’t care if you do or don’t. Just… don’t do it because you think you’re not smart enough, because you are.”

Gabriel’s stomach turns. Why doesn’t Shurley just put him on the rack, or string him up by his legs and dangle him over a pool of flesh-eating piranhas.

“I’m dead serious, Gabriel,” Mr. Shurley continues. “No grades, no tests, no papers, no bullshit-- you’re one of the smartest students I’ve ever had.”

Before Gabriel can quite help it, he draws out a long, “I bet you say that to all the failures.”

“You’re not a failure,” says Mr. Shurley. “You’re loud and annoying and maybe a little negligent with your schoolwork, but that doesn’t make you a failure.”

“No offense, but that’s not exactly a comfort coming from a high school English teacher who puts on Shakespeare plays in his spare time,” Gabriel replies.

“No offense, but you can’t just say no offense and expect people not to be offended when you say something offensive,” Mr. Shurley shoots back and sits forward. He drums his fingers on the back of the seat in front of him, rolling some thoughts around in his head before he takes a breath and turns to Gabriel.

“Listen,” he begins, then drops his voice. “I got a message from Krissy the other day that she’s not going to be able to do the play.”  

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, “Why?”

“That’s personal information that I can’t give you, Gabriel,” Mr. Shurley eyes him. “I do, however, remember something similar happening when I was in high school, when the lead in our production of Peter Pan had an emergency tonsillectomy two weeks before we opened.”

“Wow, how very discreet of you,” Gabriel snarks back. “What’s your point?”

“It’s a big responsibility,” Mr. Shurley says. “Which is why I really don’t have any choice but to ask you if you’d be willing to step in for her and play Puck.”

The billion cars going over the millions of tracks in Gabriel’s brain all screech to a halt.

“... why?” he asks.

“Because you’re the only person who could do it,” says Mr. Shurley.

“Oh, can it with the ‘Help Me, Obi-Wan’ crap,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “The day I’m somebody’s last hope is the day we all die.”

“Okay, yeah,” Mr. Shurley nods. “I could give the part to anyone I wanted. There are kids who would love to do it, and that’s why I haven’t said anything to the whole club. I’m not asking you because you’re our only hope; I’m asking because when I saw you up there the other week, you were unreal. You looked like you were having fun, and, quite frankly, it’s the first thing I’ve ever actually seen you give a damn about.”

No longer does Mr. Shurley look like he just rolled out of bed. His eyes have gone big and his eyebrows have twisted into a scowl of abject determination. Gabriel can’t remember the last time anybody was this fired up about him doing something positive. Underneath the defeatism and contempt, there’s a little bubbling something trying to get out. Whatever it is smacks itself against the thick sheet of ice, demanding that it be heard.

Through a crack it’s made, it shouts loud enough for Gabriel to hear and parrot out to Mr. Shurley, “I’ll do it.”

 

* * *

 

_‘ok so larp isn’t this weekend but next weekend’_

_‘Oh good. That actually works out, as I have a swim meet on Saturday. I thought I would have to miss seeing you in armor again. ;)’_

_‘ha ha youre hilarious’_

_‘What? I happen to think you look very handsome in fantasy dress.’_

Dean bites into his thumb nail as soon as Charlie looks up from his phone.

“Holy shit,” she grins. “Holy _shit_!”

“Man,” Dean groans and snatches back the phone. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“Are you kidding?” Charlie pushes herself up from their dining table, “You take it, hold onto it for dear life and run it all the way into the end zone… is that right? Did I do a sport?”

“And you call yourself a lesbian,” Dean rubs his face with his hands.

“Right, they didn’t test me on sports before they gave me my lesbian license,” Charlie rolls her eyes and starts to wash her cereal bowl. “And you know sports and you like dudes, so I don’t wanna hear it.”

Dean groans again and this time smacks his forehead against the table.

“Drama queen,” Charlie sing-songs, “Stereotype definitely checks off there.”

“Charlie!” Dean snaps and looks back up at her. “Do you mind? My little brother’s fuck buddy is blatantly flirting with me.”

Charlie throws a kitchen towel over her shoulder and folds her arms.

“And?”

“And?” Dean raises his eyebrows. “And, what the hell, man!?”

“Oh, boy,” Charlie hisses through her teeth. “Dean, I know it’s scary the first time you spread your queer little wings and try to leave the nest--”

“This better not be going where I think it’s going, sister.”

“He’s not Sam’s boyfriend,” Charlie groans. “You’re not doing anybody any favors by being so noble about it.”

She grabs him by the shoulders, “You don’t know what’s out there until you leave your hobbit hole, Bilbo.”

Dean makes a face.

“I like my hobbit hole.”

“I know you do,” Charlie smiles and pats him on the cheek. “But who knows, you might like that boy’s bed a whole lot better.”

“It’s not like that,” Dean swats her hands away. “It wouldn’t be bad if it was like that. I can handle wanting to fuck someone I can’t fuck.”

“Oh,” Charlie’s eyes go wide, then soft as she sits back down. “Oh, Dean. That really, really blows.”

“Man, I’m such a dick,” Dean puts his head down again.

“Dean,” Charlie breathes and sits back down beside him. “Dean, Dean, Dean…” She places a hand on his shoulder. “You’re overthinking the hell out of this.”

Dean looks up again.

“What would you do?”

Charlie purses her lips and sits back in her chair. “If I like-liked my non-existant sibling’s fuck buddy?” she asks, then concludes, “Not be such a little bitch about it, probably.”

Dean flips her off and stands up, cereal now soggy and mostly untouched. It feels wrong to waste it, so Dean picks up the bowl and chugs back the mushy off-brand Cheerios and warm milk.

“Gotta get to work,” he mutters and places his bowl in the sink. “I’ll wash it when I get back tonight.”

“What are you gonna tell Cas?” Charlie asks.

“Fuck if I know,” Dean shrugs, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to bristle. “I’ll see you later, man.”

It’s a relief to find out that he’s got a line of cars waiting for him when he gets to the shop. Bobby talks to Dean about how to prioritize jobs, how to balance providing a service with running a business. Bobby’s by no means gonna be an investor on Shark Tank any time soon (fuck, he has _got_ to start watching better TV), but what he does know he takes very seriously. By the time he actually gets to working on the cars, the morning is over and Cas and Sam are still lodged in Dean’s conscious thought.

From routine oil changes to completely disembowelling a stressed out mother’s minivan, nothing really occupies his mind enough to keep it away from Cas.

On his lunch break, he washes his hands and pulls out his phone to text Sam, only to see that he has a voicemail from a number he doesn’t recognize. With a frown, he presses play.

_“Hey, Dean. It’s dad, in case you couldn’t tell. Uh, just wanted to let you know I’m free this weekend and I was wondering if you and Sam might wanna hang out--maybe grab some food, go see a ballgame. It’s your guys’ pick. Anyway, let me know. You can get me back at this number, it’s my cell. And, uh… I’ll talk to you later. Lo--Later.”_

Hit by a wave of nausea, Dean suddenly has no desire to eat the double decker roast beef sandwich he made himself this morning. He doesn’t delete the message, but there’s no way in hell he’s listening to it again right now. So, he does what he originally intended and brings up a text to Sam.

 _‘Heard your pal is having a swim thing this weekend. Were you gonna go?_ ’

He doesn’t even take the first bite of his sandwich when his phone buzzes, _‘I wasn’t planning on it? … How do you know he’s got a meet?’_

For once, Dean is happy to have had a childhood that trained him in the art of deception.

_‘Asked if he could bring his pos in for the rest of the repairs and he said he couldnt.’_

_‘Huh. He didn’t tell me anything about it until just now when I asked.’_

Another message comes through, _‘Did you want to go?’_

_‘would you go with me so i don’t look like a total weirdo?’_

_‘Um, sure, if you want.’_

Dean’s hands shake throughout the rest of his break, and only stop after Bobby bitches him out for not paying attention to what he’s doing. He thinks it should probably make him feel bad, having Bobby yell at him, but in actuality it’s one of the only things that puts things right in his head. Dad yelling just made Sam angry and Dean anxious. When Bobby yells, he’s generally got a damn good reason. Otherwise he wouldn’t bother making the effort.

It’s well past four o’clock when Dean realizes he hasn’t taken his afternoon break. He rolls out from under a Tercel (which, by all accounts is running on nothing but a prayer) and washes up. The couch in the break room isn’t comfy in the least, but it’ll do for now.

At least, it would have if the phone on the wall didn’t start ringing. Dean grunts and pushes himself up, dragging ass over to the dated, avocado green hunk of plastic. He picks up the headset, “Yeah.”

“Dean?”

“Oh, hey Sammy,” Dean frowns and pulls out his own cell phone. No missed messages… “Everything okay?”

“Where’s Bobby?”

“Out, probably,” Dean shrugs.

“Can you go look?”

Dean looks over one shoulder, then the other, “Nope, not here.”

“Okay, fine,” Sam sighs. “But dude, I got into Stanford.”

Everything else leaks out of Dean’s head, replaced now by electricity and effervescent joy as he lets out a loud _whoop_! and says, “Hot fuckin’ damn, Sammy! I told you those California Raisins would love you.”

“Not every admissions officer is a wrinkly old white guy, you know,” Sam laughs, too elated to be annoyed.

“Eh, enough of them are,” Dean folds his arms. “So, fuck yeah! We should celebrate, right?”

“Okay,” says Sam. “... what should we do?”

“I don’t know, but it’s Friday night,” Dean smirks, “You know what that means, right?”

“Oh,” Sam interjects. “Oh, god.”

“And I ju--ju--ju--juuuuuuuust _GOT PAID!”_

“You know a surprising amount of N*sync, you know that?” Sam laughs.

“Child of the nineties, man,” Dean explains as he starts to dance in place. “No escape.”

“That’s not an excuse for anything,” Sam says.

“Psh, according to you,” Dean sandwiches the phone between his ear and his shoulder, attempting to pull a Running Man move but instead just dropping the phone.

“The hell are you doin’, boy?”

“Holy fuck!” Dean whips around. The phone still dangles by its curly cord as Bobby stands in the doorway, shaking his head.

“I--” Dean attempts to explain as he grabs the phone. He’s coming up blank so he hands the set to Bobby, “Sam’s got something to tell you and I’m gonna--I’m done with my break, so I’m just--yeah.”

He shoves the phone into Bobby’s hand and makes a mad dash back into the garage.

**oo**

History is full of the unsolved. What happened at Roanoke? Where the hell is Amelia Earhart?

Why do high school swim meets have to start at the asscrack of dawn on Saturdays?

Even more, why isn’t Dean just rolling over with a great big ‘fuck it’ and going back to sleep?

Because he’s a great big dumbass with a great big crush on an eighteen year old high school swimmer, that’s why.

He groans and sits up. He’s on the couch in Bobby’s study, limbs like sandbags and head full of lead. Just how hard did he and Sam celebrate last night?

The smell of coffee hits his nose, and Dean finds himself somewhere between throwing up all down his front and clutching the pot to his chest like it’s his precious.

“Oh good, you’re up,” comes Bobby’s voice, distorted, as though Dean is underwater.

“What happened to me,” Dean whines.

“You and Sam gave your old man a run for his money last night,” Bobby says, and suddenly Dean has a cup of black coffee in his hands. “Drink up. Sam says you gotta be out the door in five if you’re gonna make this… what is it exactly?”

Dean rubs his eye, “A swim meet. Cas’ swim meet, to be specific.”

“Huh,” Bobby folds his arms. “Why on earth would you go to somethin’ like that?”

“Because Cas is cool and I wanna support him,” Dean says, then opens his eyes. Did he really just say that?

“Who the hell are you?” Bobby asks, and Dean groans into his coffee.

“I don’t even know anymore, man,” he mumbles.

Sam shuffles into the room, not looking any better than Dean imagines he looks himself.

“I feel like I drank paint thinner,” Sam leans against the doorjamb.

“Dude, honestly, we might have,” Dean shifts and pours half the scalding coffee down his throat.

“Stanford better watch out,” Bobby claps Sam on the shoulder, and chuckles when he whines and tries to hide his face in the wallpaper. “And not just ‘cause you’re a piss poor drunk. You’re an underage piss-poor drunk.”

“He’s a fun drunk,” Dean says. “Just lousy when he’s got a hangover.”

“Like you’re any better,” Sam raises his hand, potentially to give Dean the finger, but he can’t summon the energy.

“Well, I’d punish you,” Bobby says, “but you’re on your way to a high school sporting event with a massive hangover, so I’ll let you go ahead and torture yourself.”

Sam whines, and Dean snorts.

“Hey, Sam,” he grins, and continues even though Sam doesn’t move, “You know a good hangover cure is you blend five raw eggs and hot mayonnaise and chug it all back in--”

He can’t finish through his own nauseated gag.

“That’s what you get.”

“Okay, both of you up,” Bobby claps his hands together. “I’ll drive you boys to the school.”

It’s a quiet ride, with Sam curled up in the back seat, hood of his sweatshirt drawn tight over his eyes, and Dean trying to think about anything but the pounding in his head. When he checks his phone, there’s a text from that same number dad called him from yesterday.

_‘Hey Dean, it’s dad. Did you get my message yesterday?’_

It’s two sentences, but reading them while driving makes his stomach leap up into his throat. He can barely text back, _‘sorry. long nite last nte. talk later’_

When they get to the drop off outside the gym, Bobby rolls down the window for what Dean presumes is a goodbye, but what ends up being, “Don’t let the chlorine fumes get to you too bad.”

Sam groans again.

“You’re such a fuckin’ baby,” Dean mutters and pulls him along toward the gym. In line with Bobby’s prediction, the air inside sharp with chlorine. There are more people than should rightfully be awake at this hour, the stadium seating drenched in a thick cacophony of chatter, and so many fluorescent lights that Dean actually thinks it might be worth it to gouge out his own eyeballs.

“Doth my eyes deceive me?”

Sam and Dean both turn toward the voice. It comes out of a familiar face, though one only Dean has seen in passing.

“Well, well,” Lucifer’s eyes glint behind his glasses. “What brings the Winchester brothers to this hellhole?”

“Here to see Cas swim,” Dean says, the hair on the backs of his arms standing on end as Lucifer assesses them.

“Right,” he nods. “Well, if you’re so inclined, the rest of _Cas_ ’ family has some extra space beside us.”

His tongue wraps around Cas’ name like he’s never said it before. It’s unsettling, but being that neither he nor Sam is in the seat-hunting mood, they follow Lucifer up the steps and onto one of the centermost benches. Just about everyone from Cas’ family pictures lines the bench, with the exception of his other sister Anna.

The one who looks just about as wrecked as him and Sam--Gabriel, Dean is pretty sure--looks up and frowns.

“The hell are you doing here?” he asks.

Sam shuts his eyes and shakes his head, “I honestly have no idea.”

He plops down beside Gabriel, and that’s the end of that. He’s not moving again until he absolutely has to.

“Hi Gabriel, I’m Dean. I’m Sam’s brother.”

Gabriel raises his eyebrows and blinks a few times, “Congratulations. Do you want a medal or something?”

“Ignore him,” Lucifer says and prods Dean in the back, inching him forward. “He’s ornery in the mornings. Hannah’s not much better, but at least she’s reading.”

Hannah looks up at the mention of her name and her eyes widen.

“Nice to see you again,” Dean offers half a smile.

“Fabulous, you already know each other,” Lucifer pushes him down into the seat and takes up the empty space beside him. “Over here we’ve got our parents, and this handsome devil next to me is Noah. You’ll notice he’s attached to the asshole otherwise known as Michael.”

Michael leans forward just enough so that he can see Dean around Lucifer. They’re not related by blood--logically, Dean knows this and keeps telling himself this--but with the way Michael narrows his eyes at him, it’s almost just like looking at Cas.

“Uh, hi,” Dean offers and then looks to Noah, “Hey, Noah.”

“Castiel mentioned the two of you met,” says Michael.

And then he doesn’t say anything else, just sits back behind Lucifer and Jesus Christ, Dean knows he’s hungover but this family is downright weird.

A microphone screeches and sends Dean’s face hurtling down between his knees. The audio receptors in his brain overload and he can’t even make out the words being said, much less what they could possibly mean. He only deems it safe to look up when he feels a hand on his back, then hears Lucifer chuckling.

“Oh my god, I’m so hungover,” Dean belches loud enough that the elderly woman in front of him looks back and makes a face.

“Oh, like you weren’t in the same boat the morning after Grover Cleveland was elected,” Lucifer sneers at her.

“Lucifer!” their mother snaps, and Michael starts to laugh. The woman’s eyebrows only furrow deeper.

“Say it twice more, see what happens,” Lucifer bounces his eyebrows at the old woman. “C’mon, do it. I dare you. _Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice_!”

Lucifer’s cackle is something straight out of a cartoon.

“Oh, for the--Michael,” their mom implores.

Apparently that was the only cue he needed, as Michael slaps Lucifer upside the head.

“Hey!”

“Stop being rude!” their mom snaps.

Lucifer purses his lips.

“Apologize, please.”

“Excuse you, I’m a grown-ass man,” Lucifer says. “Now if _you’ll_ excuse _me_ , my new friend Dean is trying to nurse a hangover.”

“Oh, leave him alone, Lucifer,” Hannah pipes up and reaches into the little bag slung over her chest. As Lucifer goes back to bickering with his mom, Hannah pulls out a little plastic container that contains two brand-spanking new earplugs. “Here, in this family you learn to travel with the necessities.”

She also pulls a bottle of water from her bag and a small to-go packet of Ibuprofen and hands it over.

“Uh, thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” she nods back.

“You’re being nice to me,” Dean points out, the epitome of conversational wit.

“You look like you need it,” Hannah replies, now staring down at her book again. “Castiel’s is one of the last events. I suggest you actually attempt to nurse your hangover until then.”

Yeah, this is a very, _very_ strange family.

Behind the wads of foam in his ears, Dean hears very little. If he shuts his eyes, the light doesn’t hurt so much, and his body can handle keeping the pills and the water contained. He doesn’t fall asleep, but does feel like he could if he so desired. Even though it seems to go on forever, and they’ve yet to see Cas, Dean is still glad he came.

Hannah taps him on the thigh and points to the pool. ‘Men’s 100 Backstroke’ lights up the board above the pool and Dean plucks the buds out of his ears. Pain dulled by ibuprofen, it’s much less of a chore to focus on the swimmers lining up on the side of the pool.

Dean will say it once, he’ll say it a thousand times and every four years during the Summer Olympics:

Thank God for Men’s Swimming.

Even from up in the bleachers, Dean can tell that Cas is much more tanned than he anticipated. He’s leanly muscled and adequately stretchy--lithe but strong.

Dean swallows hard.  Like his naughty thoughts about Cas needed anymore fuel whatsoever.

All lined up, the swimmers leap as soon as the horn blares.

Cas…

Cas isn’t great. He’s not the worst; he finishes somewhere in the middle. But it’s the strangest thing--even though he sort of tanked the whole thing, from the moment the swimmers start until the race finishes, Lucifer and Michael, Hannah and their parents are all on their feet, cheering out encouraging words and, in Lucifer’s case, a few obscenities that get him a couple more smacks to the head. Dean is still too sluggish to stand, but he cheers as best he can. He looks down the bench, hoping to see Sam doing the same.

Instead he sees Sam sacked out against Gabriel’s shoulder, and Gabriel’s head resting on top of his.

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s rejection from Stanford came as no surprise. The only reason he’d even applied there was because Sam had. Still, it’s disappointing to see in print just how superfluous and unworthy you are to an institution.

“Who the fuck needs ‘em?” Lucifer had clapped him on the shoulder. “Pompous little shits don’t know what they’re missing.”

“I didn’t get in either,” Hannah had pointed out. “Granted, I didn’t apply, but that’s not important. I didn’t get into Northwestern.”

Michael, the font of eldest sibling wisdom that he is, gave a genuine, “You didn’t even want to go there. Why do you care?”

“It’s still disappointing,” Castiel had said, which nobody but Gabriel really seemed to understand. Love his siblings though he does, they all have iron-clad egos. Not much gets to any of them, except Gabriel. That’s probably why Gabriel stayed up half the night with him, because even though he knew he had to swim today, he couldn’t get to sleep.

He hadn’t expected to win his event today, either. That still doesn’t make him feel any better when Coach Mills gives him that knowing, sympathetic look and asks, “Did you do your best?”

“Yeah,” Castiel nods.

“That’s all anyone can ask,” she says. “Anyone gives you any guff, you come grab me, okay?”

Castiel nods again before he slips into the boys’ locker room. He keeps his head down and his ears unfocused. If he remains deep in thought, he can ignore the stares from his teammates.

He did do his best, honest, but his best is usually better than it was today, and that’s what makes it suck that much more.

Castiel doesn’t bother washing the chlorine off his body. He just wants to get dressed and go home. He’ll shower there, and maybe hint to his mom that she should make brisket for dinner. Her baby boy is dejected, after all.

He slings his bag over his shoulder and shakes his fingers through his hair so it will start to dry properly. He weaves his way through hordes of parents and friends, all crowded around the entry to the gym, waiting for their children.

His family usually waits out closer to the parking lot. There’s so many of them that it’s kind of impractical to do otherwise.

Out the door, he sees the bright spring sunshine bounce off of Lucifer’s blond hair. He also counts two more bodies than normal.

Sam and Dean.

Castiel’s first instinct tells him to run to Dean and pummel him with a hug. Dean gives good hugs, not too loose, like Hannah does, but not too tight, like Lucifer and Gabriel do (on purpose, the pricks). Dean’s hugs are just right, and after all the crap that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, Castiel could use something that feels just right.

Castiel just doesn’t know that he can trust himself to run into Dean and not grab his face and kiss him. Many factors indicate that this is a bad idea.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean smiles at him, though, and Castiel breaks out into a grin.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Sammy and I wanted to come cheer you on,” Dean explains, though the bags under both his and Sam’s eyes turn his stomach.

“It’s so early,” he says. “I never tell anyone to come to these.”

“Castiel, would you stop being a pain in the ass?” mom pushes her way past the wall of her children and pulls Castiel into a hug. “I’m very proud of you, honey. We all are.”

“Yeah, sure,” Michael nods as Lucifer insists, “You don’t speak for me.”

Hannah jabs her finger into Lucifer’s side.

“You were awesome, dude,” Sam says and drapes an arm over Castiel’s shoulder. He ruffles his hair in a way that makes Lucifer snort and his mother cluck her tongue.

“It’s fine, ma,” Castiel smiles and tries to smooth down the unruly locks. “It’ll get better when I shower.”

Castiel swears he hears Dean clear his throat.

Whatever exchanges transpire, Castiel doesn’t hear them. He has Sam’s arm around him, sure, but he can’t stop looking at Dean out of the corner of his eye. When he’d told Dean about his swim meet, he didn’t expect him to come. Swim is just one of those annoying things that he has to do, something that messes up his schedule even though it looks good on college applications.

“I think this was my last meet.”

Eight pairs of eyes all settle on him at once. Part of him thinks that it should make him feel small, everyone looking at him like this, but it doesn’t.

Odd.

“Honey, why?” mom asks.

“Because of that in there?” dad chimes in. “Castiel, failure isn’t a reason to quit. Everyone fails, but you get up and you try again, and that’s what’s important.”

“Yes, but I don’t like swimming,” Castiel explains.

“Okay,” mom nods. “Well, we can talk about it more when we get home.

“All right,” Castiel says. “My mind is made up, though.”

“I know,” mom puts a ginger hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go. We still need to clean up before Anna gets home.”

“She’s family,” Gabriel whines. “She knows how messy we are.”

“You’re just mad because most of the mess is yours,” Lucifer snipes.

“And why do they get to go to the airport to get her?” Gabriel gestures wildly at Michael, Lucifer, and Noah.

“Because most of the mess is yours,” Lucifer says again as Michael gives an affirming pump of his fist. “Peace out, suckas.”

Michael and Lucifer make their way through the parking lot, leaving Castiel, Hannah, and Gabriel with their parents and the Winchester brothers.

“Would you like to join us, Sam? Dean?” mom asks. “I’m making pancakes when we get back.”

“Yes,” Dean blurts out as Sam nods his head.

“Well, good thing we took the big car, huh?” dad smiles, his arm replacing Sam’s around Castiel’s shoulder. “And hey, no matter what, you remember we’re all proud of you.”

He kisses Castiel on the side of his head and catches up with the rest of the family, who are already several strides ahead.

“What the hell is that?” Dean asks.

“What?” Castiel cocks his head.

“Your parents are so… cool,” Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets. “That went down with me and my old man? Shit, I woulda been blown off the face of the earth.”

“I suppose I did have a stroke of luck in the parents department,” Castiel considers. “They’re by no means perfect, but I’m glad my mom married Richard. He’s always treated me and Hannah like we’re his own blood.”

Castiel’s nose scrunches, “That sounded less gory in my head.”

Dean chuckles and cuffs him on the arm. Castiel doesn’t question it, doesn’t find it even remotely out of place. Dean is touching him and every fiber of his being screams out to touch him back.

“I’m glad you came, Dean,” he says, his cheeks heating up ever so slightly. “That means a lot to me.”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean smiles wider.

“I don’t have a lot of friends,” he blurts. Crap, why did he say that? Now Dean’s looking at him like he’s from outer space. _Shitshitshit._ “What I mean is, I don’t have a lot of people who like me--no, that’s not any better. I mean that even Gabriel has friends, and Sam has other friends, even though we both started hanging out because we didn’t have any other friends like us. I’m sorry, I’m just not used to… this.”

Dean’s tongue peeks out between his lips, his eyes seer lines into the entire length of Castiel’s body.

A car horn blares and Castiel startles. Apparently, he and Dean decided to stop right in the middle of the parking lot. They turn quickly and continue walking to the car. While it’s probably for the best that nothing happened, Castiel is still left with an itch under his skin that he’ll never be able to scratch. He would rather hold in a sneeze, would rather masturbate and stop just as his orgasm was about to hit, would rather walk around feeling like he has to pee for the rest of his life than leave Dean unkissed.

And yet, they both climb into the car, Castiel squished in the middle seat between Hannah and Dean while Sam and Gabriel boast about having the whole back seat to themselves.

Castiel assumes it must be a camaraderie that comes with their long hours in drama club, until Hannah squeezes her eyes shut and mutters, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

As always, the affirmation does nothing. It is enough to ground Castiel again, though. The flurry of hormones in his body calms, and he finds it just a little easier to sit next to Dean. Mom narrates her plans for the rest of the day while dad picks Hannah’s brain about the book in her lap. It’s not even assigned reading; Castiel has no idea where she finds the time.

When they park in the garage, mom all but drags Gabriel into the house with her, insistent that he clean at least a little before they eat. Her eyes land on Sam, who follows close behind them, and Castiel can hear her ask, “Does nobody feed you, you poor boy?”

“Uh…”

“Honey, I’ve already told you that if you need a hot meal, we’ve always got extra,” she says.

Castiel doesn’t recall ever having Sam over for any meal--he doesn’t recall him and his mother speaking more than two words to one another at a time.

Odd.

“Twiggy little fuck, isn’t he?” Dean asks. It takes that and the door to the house slamming shut for Castiel to realize they’re the only people left in the garage.

Castiel isn’t one to ignore a sign as blatant as that. He drops his swim bag at his feet and turns so he has Dean between him and the side of the van. They can only look at one another for so long before they give in.

Their first kiss is by no means timid. Their noses bump, various body parts hit and bump as they try to grab at one another, and maybe Castiel gets so excited that he accidentally cracks Dean’s skull against the van’s window.

“Shit,” he mutters as Dean breaks the kiss to let out his own string of colorful swears. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Dean grunts, massaging the back of his head with one hand, while the other remains planted on Cas’ waist. It takes another few moments for the rest of Dean’s mind to catch up, and he goes perfectly still.

“Oh, boy,” he says, eyes fixed firmly on Castiel’s. Dean has such beautiful eyes. “Cas, we can’t… right?”

“Can’t,” Castiel repeats, not liking the way the word feels on his tongue. “Can’t… after this?”

Dean nods, “Deal.”

And even with his family and Sam on the other side of the door, Castiel still lets himself be lost in the way that Dean holds onto him.

 

* * *

 

For as nice as Gabriel and Cas’ mom is, the two times Sam has eaten in her home have been borderline stressful. She watches him like a hawk, and if it looks like he’s done before she’s satisfied with how much he’s eaten, she piles the food just as high again. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d think he was being fed by Molly Weasley.

That can’t be the case, but his suspicions only grow stronger when Gabe appears and greets his mother with a stiff bow. He says, “I think you’ll find the bathroom has been adequately cleaned, your majesty.”

In a second, Mrs. Novak goes from cheerful to borderline homicidal.

“Excuse me?” she challenges. “I didn’t hear that from an eighteen year old who lives here rent free, did I?”

Livid though she is, she still sets a plate of pancakes down in front of her son.

“You never bitch about that to Lucifer,” Gabriel mutters. “And that shithead is almost twenty-three.”

“Don’t talk about your brother that way,” Mrs. Novak warns.

“Are you kidding?” Gabriel lets out a laugh. “That’s not even on par with the worst thing Lucifer’s said _today_.”

“Eat,” is his mother’s only response. Gabriel gives Sam a withering look before he tucks into his stack of pancakes, effectively silencing himself. The silence borders on awkward until Hannah appears from the other room, carrying with her a book and a syrupy plate.

“If you have extra, I’d like more,” she says.

“Honey, you have to watch it,” Mrs. Novak replies. “Novak women are built to last, but not forever.”

Hannah looks down at herself, then back up at her mother.

“Not that it matters,” she scowls, “But I am at a reasonable weight for someone of my height, age, and sex.”

“Let’s keep it that way, hm?”

“Gee, I don’t know which I’d rather discuss,” Hannah crosses her arms over her chest, “My nonexistant weight problem, my strict no dating policy, my vagina’s strict no admissions policy, or the subsequent self worth issues that come from any of those conversations.”

Mrs. Novak stares her down, but flips the finished pancake on the griddle over to Hannah’s plate.

“Can we please go one day without hearing about your vagina?” Gabriel asks and Sam chokes on his pancake.

He doesn’t have sisters, but he knows that is definitely not something you say to a girl.

Hannah illustrates this perfectly by turning the syrup bottle upside down right over Gabriel’s head.

“Dude!” Gabriel leaps up as their mother shouts, “ _Hannah Liora Novak_ , what is wrong with you!”

“If you get to talk about your dick and where it’s been, in whom it’s been--”

Sam swallows hard as Hannah stares him down.

“--then I can talk about how I don’t want anybody poking around my _vagina_.”

She cups her hands over her mouth on the last word.

Gabriel turns an incredulous look at Mrs. Novak, syrup dripping from his hair down onto his face, and if Sam’s stomach wasn’t tied up in knots he might think this was a little funny.

“Nothing?” Gabriel asks her. “Not a goddamned word. That’s nice.”

Gabriel pushes himself away from the island counter and storms off past Sam. His angry footfalls thunder over their heads as he runs upstairs, and Sam winces when he hears a door slam shut.

“That boy,” Mrs. Novak sighs and grabs the abandoned plate of pancakes. Somewhere upstairs there’s a shower going now, and Sam can’t help the urge he has to go make sure Gabriel is okay.

“And you, missy,” Sam hears Mrs. Novak say as he stands and takes long strides out of the kitchen. How anybody in this house gets anything done with so much yelling going on really is a mystery to Sam. Even from upstairs he can still hear Mrs. Novak chewing out her daughter for her behavior.

The bathroom door is locked when Sam gets to it, which is good. There’s no telling why Sam thought it wouldn’t be, or what possessed him even to check. If Gabriel was in the shower, that wasn’t for Sam to intrude. It’s just as well that he takes a seat on Gabriel’s bed across the hall and waits.

He’s nowhere near as miserable as he was this morning, but with the pancakes and the jolt of adrenaline that comes from witnessing a scene like that, his stomach gives an unhappy gurgle. Not incapacitating, but definitely unpleasant.

After a few minutes, the water shuts off. Within moments Gabriel, in nothing but a towel, startles at the sight of Sam on his bed.

And the sight of Gabriel mostly naked gives Sam all sorts of inappropriately nice feelings down in the lower region of his belly.

“Well,” Gabriel shuts the door behind him. “Welcome to the family.”

“Dude, are you okay?” Sam asks. “Because that was kind of insane.”

Gabriel’s only response is to groan and flop face first onto the bed.

Yeah, having a naked guy next to him is not doing Sam any favors.

Except it’s only now that Sam notices just how freckly Gabriel’s shoulders are. Sam hasn’t had freckles since he was in his single digits, and even those were only on his face. Gabriel’s are everywhere.

Sam only realizes he’s grazed Gabriel’s shoulder with his fingertips when he hears a little intake of breath.

“Sorry,” Sam clears his throat and, just to be safe, sits on both of his hands. Gabriel doesn’t seem to mind, though. He rolls over onto his back, and of course his towel comes loose and there it is. Gabriel is completely naked.

He’s got kind of a fuzzy chest and he’s pudgy, but he doesn’t seem to be too embarrassed by it. And even soft, Gabriel’s dick still looks about as inviting as ever.

“Feelin’ a little exposed here, Sammy,” Gabriel gives him a grin.

“You should probably get dressed, then,” Sam replies, looking anywhere but exactly where he wants to look.

“Or, just hear me out,” Gabriel sits up and scoots over, “You could get naked and we could have ourselves a naked party. A naked party for two.”

Sam tries not to let his affections and stupid hormonal brain get the best of him, but it’s useless. He’ll have to settle for talking while he pulls off his clothes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, shucking his sweater and t-shirt at the same time.

“Sammy, please,” Gabriel rolls his eyes and leans back on his hands. “That was a category one, maximum.”

“Dude, I’m all about fucked up family,” says Sam, now working on getting his belt undone. “But that just seemed kinda… bad.”

“Trust me, that was amateur hour,” Gabriel scoots forward on his bed. “You are nowhere near as naked as you need to be.”

Were Sam of sound mind, he would stop undressing. He would tell Gabriel to get dressed so they could have an actual talk. Unfortunately, Sam is a few weeks shy of eighteen and he is weak, weak, _weak_. He can see Gabriel’s erection swelling right here in real time and it’s making his blood get hot.

His jeans and boxers hit the floor, and maybe Sam trips when he remembers that he is still wearing shoes, but it’s a quick recovery. He steadies himself on Gabriel’s shoulder as he wedges his sneakers off his feet, knowing full well that Gabriel’s eyes are glued to his now naked body.

“What?” Sam asks.

“You are not in my bed,” Gabriel gives a simple reply. “That is unacceptable, Sam.”

Sam lets a smile slip. He’s not quite as comfortable with being naked as Gabriel so obviously is, but he swallows all that insecurity back and crawls on top of Gabriel.

“Why, hello good sir,” Gabriel grins, his hands on either side of Sam’s face as he pulls him down into a kiss. Even when completely naked, being here with Gabriel is still the most effortless thing in the world.

Only, there’s no bite behind it this time. Whatever underlying current of urgency that’s dictated their previous encounters is nowhere to be found. Instead, Sam hangs onto every last touch for as long as he can. His lips linger on Gabriel’s and his fingers stroke lazy patterns into the soft skin on Gabriel’s side, and when Gabriel wriggles under the attention, he lets Sam hold him still.

“‘the hell are you doing, weirdo?” Gabriel asks. Sam doesn’t know how to phrase it, so he answers with a kiss--one that’s as soft and slow as his instinct tells him to go. At Gabriel’s sharp exhale, Sam pulls back and catches his eye. It figures a guy with such a normally expressive face would be impossible to read in this moment. This annoying little shit. This crass, obnoxious, big-hearted, thoughtful, insightful Super Ball of energy… How could anyone not love him?

A knock on the door startles them.

Hannah’s voice coming from the other side sends Sam sailing off of the bed in an effort to find his pants while Gabriel tugs on a pair of sweats. Sam has only gotten the zipper on his fly up by the time Gabriel opens the door.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” is the first thing Hannah asks.

“Sorry, just got out of the shower,” Gabriel explains. “Some asshole dumped syrup all over me. Had to get it out.”

“Mom told me I had to come up here and apologize, but so far you’re not making a very compelling case for yours--” her eyes finally land on Sam, trying to hide his too big body in too small a space. “Oh, for the--I can see you, Sam!”

Sam looks up at her and gives a small, “Hi.”

“Oh, my god,” she slips into the room and shuts the door behind her. “What on earth are the two of you thinking?”

“So, you know that old saying, ‘don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer’?”

“Shut up, Gabriel,” Hannah snaps. “Castiel is right downstairs and so is Dean.”

“Oh yeah, Dean came back with us,” Gabriel recalls, only to get a fist to the bicep.

“Stop fucking around,” she warns. “You are obviously going to get caught, so I suggest you come clean--do _not_ say what you are about to say,” she holds up her finger just as Gabriel opens up his mouth.  

“Hannah,” Sam finally finds it in him to stand. “Look, Cas and I aren’t, y’know. Together. It’s not a big deal.”

“Have you told him about these little trysts?” Hannah asks, and at Sam’s silence nods, “That’s what I thought. Lying by omission is still lying, and why do people lie? To stay out of trouble. Ergo, you obviously think it’s a big enough deal to keep it from Castiel, otherwise you would have told him.”

The few seconds that pass are not nearly enough time for the dust to have settled before Gabriel says, “You should have your own prime time crime drama.”

Presumably, to keep her rage at bay, Hannah leaves the room without another word.

Sam and Gabriel look at one another but say nothing. Instead, pull on the rest of their clothes in silence and head back downstairs, where Cas and Dean sit beside one another at the dining table. Both have pancakes piled high in front of them. Very interesting pancakes, it seems, as they can only stare at them.

“There you are,” says Mrs. Novak when she sees Gabriel again. She grabs him by the face and does a quick inspection. “Looks like you got it all out. Did Hannah apologize?”

Gabriel’s eyebrows crunch with thought, and then he answers, “I think so.”

“Good,” Mrs. Novak nods and looks back at Sam. “You didn’t finish your pancakes, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I’m fu--” There’s no point to finishing that sentence; Mrs. Novak has already put a plate of fresh pancakes in front of him.

Dean snickers from his seat across the table, only to have Cas bat him gently upside the head.

They share a look that Sam would find odd and out of place if he weren’t so busy watching Gabriel play on his phone over at the island counter.

“So, Sam,” Mrs. Novak continues as she finally shuts off the stove. “Dean was just saying that you got into Stanford. That’s very exciting.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, not missing the way Gabriel’s eyes flick up from his phone. “It’s kinda surreal. I’m still not sure it even happened, to be honest.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Novak brushes it away. “You worked very hard, that’s a point of pride.”

Gabriel lets out a heavy sigh, but says nothing.

“Your parents must be proud, at least,” Mrs. Novak continues.

“My uncle, but yeah,” Sam nods. “Pretty proud.”

Dean clears his throat, and Sam looks over. Dean’s phone now sits in front of him, with a text reading, _‘Stanford, huh? That’s pretty damn impressive. We should celebrate. Ballgame next weekend? I know Adam would love to meet you two.’_

Sam snaps back up to Dean, “You told him?”

“He’s our dad, you dink,” Dean grabs his phone. “He should know.”

There are about a million things on the tip of Sam’s tongue that never meet air. Instead, his phone buzzes in his own pocket. If Dean gave dad his phone number…

It’s a message from Gabriel, _‘What a schmuck. You want me to beat him up for you?’_

When Sam looks up again, Gabriel meets his eye and gives him a wink before sliding off his chair.

“Well, I’m off to live my life,” he declares. “So much love in this room, somebody’s gotta give this family something to loudly disapprove of. Dean, nice to meet you and Sam, it’s been a pleasure, as always.”

And even though Gabriel is no longer in Sam’s line of sight, or even the same room, he still feels him there. It’s nice to know that if things came to a head, he would at least have one person on his side without question.

Just like that, Sam realizes he might actually be in love.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

“What the _fuck!_ ” Gabriel shouts, grabbing the sore spot on his bicep.

“You’re taking over for Krissy and you didn’t tell me?” Sam demands. “Like I wasn’t gonna find out?”

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Gabriel rolls his shoulder, not so much to actually test whether or not it’s working but rather to serve as a silent ‘what the fuck’. “I didn’t tell you because I fucking _knew_ you’d find out, dickweed. God...”

“Dude, you’re my friend,” says Sam. “Friends get to know shit before everyone else does. That’s part of being friends.”

“Is there any part of the friendship contract that involves you breaking my arm, you fucking Amazon?” Gabriel hisses. The pain is mostly gone, but if he keeps steering the conversation away from the actual issue, maybe he won’t have to talk about it.

“Dude, how are you not stoked about this?” Sam asks. “You’re gonna be onstage!”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, “And?”

“And you kick ass onstage!” Sam exclaims. “I mean… you kick ass all the time, but. Y’know. You like being onstage and you’re really good at it.”

“You’ve seen me one time,” Gabriel holds up his index finger, then raises it so everybody watching can see.

Nobody is watching.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and continues, “I filled in for Krissy _once_ and suddenly all you boners have every confidence in me. How is that a logical conclusion?”

Hannah appears beside him, a script in hand and a pencil behind her ear, to say, “Suddenly the guy who tried to drink a carton of expired milk for twenty dollars is concerned with logical conclusions.”

“Hey, lay off,” Gabriel demands. “That was five whole days ago.”

Hannah rolls her eyes.

“Fine,” Gabriel crosses his arms and looks back to Sam. “Sorry I didn’t say anything.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hannah staring at him.

“ _What_?!” he snaps.

“Nothing,” Hannah shakes her head. “We have to get you fitted for a costume and Sam has to go back to the lighting booth.”

“Oh,” Gabriel falters. Sam’s puppy dog eyes haven’t left him, and it would be unsettling (and maybe a little creepy) if it weren’t making his nethers stir.

“Wanna hang out after?” Sam asks.

“Sure,” Gabriel nods, and that’s that.

As much as Gabriel wants to tank in rehearsal (just to show these sonsabitches that they are not right about him or his alleged talents), it actually goes kind of well.  It's fun to play off of Raphael, and it's even more amazing when he stops and hears the laughter coming from the house and backstage.

The subsequent post-rehearsal “good job”s coming from just about every other club member stirs up something funny in his gut, something unlike anything he’s ever felt before. Even Mr. Shurley can’t keep the wide, albeit smug, smile off of his face.

“Don’t,” is all Gabriel says as Hannah steps up beside him.

“I didn’t say anything,” Mr. Shurley sticks up his hands, and that’s the end of that.

“He’s right, though,” says Hannah, “The level of your competence is borderline irritating.”

“Gee, thanks,” Gabriel rolls his eyes.

“You’re welcome,” Hannah nods back, “Ready to go?”

“Ah, no,” Gabriel adjusts his bag over his shoulder. “I’m gonna hang out with… some people.”

Hannah squints at him and repeats, “Some people.”

“Some tall… swishy haired people,” Gabriel coughs as he sees Sam wave to him from the lighting booth.

“You cannot keep doing this,” Hannah calls after Gabriel, but it doesn’t deter him. He hops down off the stage, already miles away in Samsylvania, and trots out the door. Only, instead of heading to the lighting booth, a hand grips him hard and pulls him around the corner.

“I need to talk to you.”

It’s Castiel.

Gabriel hadn’t seen much of Castiel after the whole swim meet debacle. He refused to un-quit, and though Anna was home for only a short time, Castiel wouldn’t come out of his room to spend time with her or the family. He wouldn’t come out for anything other than meals. Now his pale face shines with grease, while bags cast a deep, dark gray shadow under his eyes.

“Shit, Cassie, you okay?” Gabriel asks. “You look like an extra straight out of Dawn of the Dead.”

“I haven’t slept,” Castiel explains, then repeats, “I need to talk to you.”

Gabriel nods, “Yeah, of course. Lemme just,” he pulls out his phone and shoots Sam a quick text:

_‘Talking w bro real quick. Meet at your truck?’_

“Okay, what’s goin’ down in Cassie Town?” Gabriel slides his phone back into his pocket only to be blindsided.

“I kissed Dean.”

Gabriel’s stomach drops.

“Dean… Winchester?”

Castiel nods.

Gabriel has to quickly remind himself that now is not the time to smile. Cas is obviously broken up about this, and somehow Gabriel doesn’t think telling him _“Don’t worry, I’ve been schtupping Sam, so everyone wins”_ will go over all that well.

So, he goes with his first question, “How did that happen?”

Castiel lets out a breath and leans up against a row of lockers.

“I’ve spent some time with him,” he says, “And he’s… I don’t know, he’s--”

Castiel puts his face in his hands, “I like him so much.”

Gabriel lets out a breath and grabs the back of his neck, cogs in his head already turning. Maybe there’s a way to get out of this without hurting anybody.

“Yeah, you gotta tell Sam,” Gabriel says. At Castiel’s look of utter confusion, he continues, “It’s way better to be forthright with this kinda thing, trust me. Honesty will get you everywhere in relationships.”

Castiel frowns, “You’re one of the most dishonest people I know.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel tips an imaginary cap, “But that’s exactly how I know that honesty is the way to go. I’ve royally fucked myself out of unquantifiable amounts of shit because I have a flawless poker face and borderline psychotic sense of self-preservation.”

He is the worst.

He is the worst human on planet Earth.

But he’s going to be the worst person who also has everything he wants.

“That makes a lot of sense,” Castiel nods. “What am I supposed to say to him, though? I’ve never broken up with anyone before. Is this even breaking up? I like Sam too, just. Not in the same way I like Dean.”

Gabriel hums.

“Well, you’ve said it yourself that you’re not exclusive,” he says.

“That doesn’t make what I did any less shitty,” Castiel bonks his head back on a locker. “You don’t suppose they make greeting cards for this kind of thing, do you?”

“No, but that’s not a bad idea,” Gabriel allows himself to ponder for just a moment, “Truth be told, your best bet is probably to say it just like you said it to me. Simple, direct, no nonsense.”

He is going to Hell in a flaming chariot, holy shit.

“I suppose,” Castiel sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “When exactly did I lose total control of my life?”

“The moment you busted out of your mother’s cootie catcher,” Gabriel smacks him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the rest of your life, my child.”

Castiel snorts and shrugs his hand away, but thanks him all the same.

“I know I don’t say it a lot, but I’m glad you’re my brother,” he says. “And, um. Please don’t tell anyone. Especially Hannah.”

“Whoa, you didn’t tell your Wonder Twin?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I love her and I know she’d listen, but she isn’t exactly the most sympathetic ear for this kind of thing.”

“True that,” Gabriel nods.

“Michael and Anna would lecture me and Lucifer would laugh at me, but,” Castiel shrugs, “I know I can always come to you.”

To add insult to injury, Castiel goes from zero to full blown hug in .001 seconds flat. If he feels Gabriel go tense, he doesn’t make it known. In eighteen years, meanwhile, Gabriel has never felt more like he wants to die.

This is good, though. At least, that’s what Gabriel is telling himself. This way, Cas gets to be happy and so does Sam. Sure, the reason Sam would be happy would be the fact that he could hook up with Gabriel guilt-free, and thus make Gabriel happy as a result, but as long as Gabriel kept his mouth shut he wouldn’t have to think too hard about it.

Plus, Sam’s gone in a couple months anyway. By that time, they’ll be done with their thing and, if they play their cards right, nobody will be the wiser.

Gabriel tries to ignore the sudden pain in his chest. Maybe he’ll die of a coronary before anything can happen.

Man, that’d be swell.

By the time he and Cas part ways, Gabriel’s stomach has tied itself up in innumerable knots. The walk to Sam’s truck feels like a walk to the gallows. He wonders if Hannah has left yet, but a quick scan of the parking lot and no station wagon in sight tells him that she’s long gone.

Sam sits in the bed of his truck, long legs sprawled out in front of him, and it’s almost nauseating to Gabriel how hard his stomach twists at the sight. In a moment of weakness, Gabriel lets himself feel it. He lets the impending jolt of crippling loneliness surge through his bones for half a second before he stows it away.

Save this _feelings_ shit for a later day.

“Hey,” Sam grins.

“If it ain’t the sexiest man west of the Mississippi,” Gabriel shoots back and hops up into the bed. He sets his bag down and lowers himself onto Sam’s lap, arms looping around his long, skinny neck while their foreheads come to rest together.

“Everything okay?” Sam asks. Gabriel nods in spite of the gaping pit in his stomach. He reminds himself that things always feel the worst before they start to get better, but it doesn’t keep Gabriel from going stiff when Sam starts to kiss his neck.

“You sure?” Sam murmurs right against the pulse in his throat.

Gabriel doesn’t see any way around it. He has no choice but to nod again and thread his fingers through Sam’s hair.

“I’m great,” he says, and Sam smiles, “Good.”

Maybe he really is the greatest actor of all time.

* * *

 

_‘You think I should be there when you do?’_

_‘No, I want to do it by myself. Thank you, though. You’re kind to offer.’_

Part of Dean wants to insist that he be there. First and foremost, Sam is his brother. He should be there when Cas tells Sam; he should own up to his mistakes, like the adult he is (though, now more than ever his adulthood seems like an incredible oversight), and just take his lumps.

Like an adult.

Unfortunately, too much of him is still chickenshit, so he texts Cas back, _‘Ok if you’re sure. Let me know if you change your mind though’_ , and leaves it at that.

It’s the last that he hears from Cas for three days. Even then, the only reason Cas texts him again on Thursday is to ask about LARP that weekend.

_‘Fuck. I actually cant come this weekend. My dad is taking me and sammy to a ballgame.’_

_‘... where?’_

_‘We’re seeing the twins play in minneapolis. Leaving friday night after sams done with drama and driving to windom, then driving to the stadium next day with our dad and our little brother, i guess.’_

Something hits him, a nonexistent wind kicking up old stagnant feelings and creating a perfect storm of shit in his entire body. His stomach starts to turn and his heart starts to thump wildly in his chest. Tomorrow they’re driving to Windom to see their dad and meet his new family. Tomorrow, Dean will be in the car with Sam for nearly two hours, in all likelihood thinking about Cas and how much he’d rather be LARPing with him and Charlie.

A last glance at his phone reveals Cas’ reply _, ‘That sounds awful. I hope it’s not. Text me if you like. I just got a new emoji keyboard.’_

And then another timestamped about two minutes later, _‘That didn’t have anything to do with you texting me, I just wanted to express my joy at new emojis. Don’t mind me.’_

It’s the closest text message equivalent to babbling that Dean has ever seen, and goddamn it he thinks it’s cute.

Son of a _bitch_.

After work on Friday, Dean goes directly to Uncle Bobby’s. Sam’s at the dining table, all of his AP books splayed out for the world to see, his fingers pressed into the barrel of his pen with whiteknuckle force.

That’s right--end of April means that AP tests are right around the corner, and that also means they’re about a week away from celebrating Sam’s eighteenth birthday. Ever since Sam enrolled in his first AP class, it’s been Dean’s least favorite part of the year. Sam’s stress is Dean’s stress, and Dean’s stress is about as easy to tame as a spooked horse on crank.

“If you’re already in at Stanford, what’s it matter that you study this hard for these AP things?” Dean asks.

“Just because I’m in doesn’t mean that the fight’s over, dude,” Sam says. “If I play my cards right, study like I’m supposed to, I can get more of my GE requirements out of the way and get to the fun classes.”

“‘Fun classes’,” Dean repeats. “Do they have Trampoline 101 at Stanford?”

That does it. Sam looks up, but where Dean expects a roll of the eyes and a reluctant smile, there’s a firm brow and a, “You’re not funny.”

“Ouch,” Dean sucks through his teeth.

“Would you quit it?” Sam rolls his eyes again. “I have to finish this study guide before we leave.”

Dean frowns, “Christ, I know baseball isn’t your favorite and you could give a shit about dad, but…  you’re not gonna just study all weekend, are you?”

“I am going to do everything I can to make sure I never have to take a poetry class, ever,” Sam returns. “If dad or his infidelities can get me out of any future Literature credits I might need, then I might reconsider.”

“It’s not an infidelity,” Dean feels it necessary to say. “The vows say ‘’til death do you part’, man.”

“Oh, my god,” Sam throws down his pen, “Will you just shut the fuck up and go shower!? I’m not sitting in that stupid fucking car with you for two hours with you smelling like BO and engine grease.”

“Great,” Dean nods and unzips his coveralls. “While I’m up there, why don’t you have someone remove whatever the fuck crawled up your ass and died, all right? Thanks.”

It only gets worse from there.

Once packed and in the car, Sam starts bitching about how it’s too dark to see any of his notes. He whines about the music and Baby’s shocks (that Dean _still_ hasn’t gotten around to replacing, but get off his back, all right? It’s been a tough week), but when Dean goes against every belief he holds dear and offers to let Sam pick the music, suddenly he’s playing the, _“It doesn’t matter, I’m cool with whatever”_ card.

What an asshole.

They roll into Windom just a few minutes until ten o’clock. Dad lives on a street unlike any on which Dean has lived--at least, not since he was a kid too young to have any real memories. He remembers snippets of the house in Lawrence, has a few precious moments locked up in his mind: his mom’s smile, the smell of cold, wet cement and warm tomato rice soup, the swell of mom’s belly as Sam grew inside her. He sees it all through a golden haze, weaves it into a grand fantasy that in no way matches the reality of the cold white clapboard siding and solemn quietude of his dad’s new home.

“Putting our differences aside for just a minute,” says Dean as he shifts into park. “What the fuck?”

Sam follows Dean’s line of sight to the modest, plain structure before them. This is what kept dad from coming back to them?

“Kinda shabby, right?” Dean asks.

“Not what I was expecting,” Sam agrees, and they get out of the car.

Dad’s the one that greets them, thank god. Dean isn’t ‘shy’, exactly, but this situation is a little more emotionally taxing than getting drunk and singing a karaoke duet at a bar with Charlie.

“So glad you boys are here,” says dad after a round of tense-muscled hugs and clapping both Dean and Sam on the back.

Then it happens: Kate Milligan rounds the corner and suddenly Sam and Dean are face-to-face with the woman that made John Winchester take root and be the dad he was supposed to be.

She’s a blonde lady with a kind smile and a motherly disposition. She’s a novelty for Sam, unlike any woman he’s met most likely. For Dean, it’s too surreal--like trying to wake a sleeping animal only to realize that it’s dead. Kate goes to shake his hand and all Dean can do is stare at her.

“Dean,” dad nudges him, and involuntarily Dean’s arm extends in greeting.

“Hi, sorry,” he says.

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” Kate waves it off. “It’s a long drive out here, especially after work and school. You both must be exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies just to reply. Come to think of it, he is pretty beat.

“Well, come in for goodness sake,” Kate beams. “If you could just take your shoes off by the door right there.”

Simultaneously, Dean and Sam look down to see a neat row of shoes against the wall. As a gesture of goodwill, they both comply, but Dean is not prepared to be without the weight of his boots on his feet.

“Adam is just upstairs brushing his teeth,” says dad. Kate gives him a look that prompts him to offer, “Let me go get him.”

Kate then gestures them back further into the house. She says, “Follow me, I’ll show you to the den.”

Old wooden panels line the four walls of the den, but the carpet looks to be relatively new. The TV isn’t too dated and the furniture is at least from this century, even if pull-out beds should have been done away with long ago.

“You two can just set your things here,” she directs them to the space beside the bed. “I don’t know which of you wants this and which will take the air mattress. They’re both pretty comfy.”

“An air mattress?” Dean asks. “Don’t those things pop?”

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” Kate says and opens up a closet in the far corner of the room. She pulls out a box with a linen-clad white lady smiling and lying on the mattress and opens up the top, continuing, “Your dad sleeps on this all the time when we go camping.”

Camping.

Dad goes _camping_ with these people.

Then the ceiling starts to sound with a loud _thump-thump-thump_ , and a flurried accompaniment of _‘They’re here, they’re here!’_ follows soon after. Before they know it, Sam and Dean are face to face with their little brother.

For being ten, Adam is already taller than either Sam or Dean was at that age. He’s got these big buggy eyes and spindly little limbs, capped with a wild tuft of white blond hair. In fact, Adam looks much more like he tumbled out of Tim Burton’s sketchbook than out of dad’s scrotum.

 _Ugh,_ bad image. Dean shakes his head of the thought and just watches as Adam stares in wonderment.

“You guys are really tall,” is the first thing Adam says to them.

“Hey, you’re no shrimp yourself,” Dean smiles and holds out his hand. “I’m Dean.”

Adam goes right past his hand and wraps his arms tightly around his eldest brother. Funny, Dean had always thought of himself as the older brother, but now that Adam is in the mix, he’s the eldest. He has two little brothers now.

The look on dad’s face is one that Dean hasn’t seen in nearly eighteen years. Especially when Adam moves from Dean to Sam, the guy looks like he might cry out of happiness. A feeling that Dean has had many times, and for too long believed it was shameful to have. Dad always told him to toughen up, but now.

Dean has always known that dad isn’t heartless. He’s a major ass, but what he lacks in affection he makes up for in…

Huh. Dean doesn’t know what.

“All right, we said you could stay up until Sam and Dean got here,” says Kate. “It’s past your bedtime.”

“But mom, it’s a Friday,” Adam all but whines. “And I wanna show them my comics and show them my collection.”

What a ten-year-old is collecting is beyond Dean.

“You can show them all of that tomorrow,” dad lays a ginger hand on Adam’s shoulder. “We’ve got a long trip ahead of us in the morning.”

Adam lets out a loud groan, but eventually gives in. He gives Sam and Dean each one last hug before following dad upstairs. Kate chuckles and shakes her head.

“He’s been talking about meeting you two nonstop all week,” she says. “He’s the only one of his friends who doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, so you can imagine what a big ‘get’ this is for him.”

“Don’t know,” Sam shrugs. “Never been an only child.”

“Things are sure as hell a lot quieter,” Dean mutters, but shakes his head when Kate asks him to repeat himself.

They get settled as Kate sets up the air mattress pump. It’s noisy, but Dean doesn’t mind. It’s better than the deafening trumpet of the elephant in the room.

“So, your dad tells me you’re quite the mechanic,” Kate looks right at Dean. “He’s been trying to teach Adam, but Adam’s not really one of those kids. He likes to read and watch movies, and you should see the elaborate setups he makes with his toy soldiers.”

“Ah,” Dean nods. “Back in my day we called that an ‘indoors kid’,” he says and not so subtly points to Sam.

“Real mature,” Sam snips and goes back to the pile of notes in his lap.

“What the hell, we just got here and you’re trying to study for your stupid APs?” Dean asks.

Not that he wants to be socializing either, but Kate has been nothing but kind to them and Dean respects her effort.

“Oh, which one?” Kate asks, and Sam looks up from his notes.

“Well, I’m looking at Government now, but I’m not too worried about it,” says Sam. “I’m kinda freaking out about my Calculus test, though.”

Kate gives a knowing hum. She asks, “Did your dad tell you what I do for a living?”

Dean and Sam both shake their heads.

“That man,” she sighs. “I’m a math teacher at the high school just over here. My students have been sweating bullets over this test for weeks.”

“You--” Sam’s eyes go wide. “You know calculus?”

“I have a BS in Mathematics and a Master’s in education,” Kate lets out a laugh. “If I don’t know calculus, we’re all in trouble.”

“I--” Sam narrows his eyes. “You’re serious?”

“You bet your sweet bippy,” she nods. Where Dean expects her to propose an all night study hall, she grabs Sam’s notes and tucks them against her chest. “Let me tell you, you’re not going to do any better by forcing the information into your head. I have a very strict rule: no studying after nine pm on a Friday.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Are you kidding me?” he asks. “How does that even work? I have six hours of homework _at least_ , not including test prep--”

“And you have all weekend to do it,” Kate gives him a smile. “Tell you what, we can have a study session tomorrow morning over a plate of waffles.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sam scowls. “I wanna study now.”

Dean holds back a big, sarcastic laugh.

“Sorry,” Kate shrugs.

“What the fuck weird-ass fascist regime is this?!” Sam’s voice rises.

“Ooh yeah, she wants you to get more than three hours of sleep in a night,” Dean shakes his head. “The nerve of some people.”

Kate bites down on her lips to stifle her laughter.

“All right, the bathroom is right down the hall,” she says. “If you need toothbrushes or toothpaste, I have extras.”

Dean can practically hear the cartoonish metallic clank of Sam’s jaw hitting the floor. Of course it’s then that dad reappears in the doorway and Dean’s smile completely falls off of his face.

“Don’t let me spoil all your fun,” dad jests, though neither Dean nor Sam can muster up a genuine laugh.

“Wow, not all at once, guys,” says dad.

“Oh, calm down,” Kate waves him off. “If you can’t talk smack about your dad to his wife-to-be, then what can you do?”

Dean swallows back his own response, as he is in no way in any headspace to be as polite as Kate.

“Okay, well,” dad puts an arm around Kate. “Long day tomorrow, you better get some sleep.”

“And feel free to help yourselves to any food,” Kate chimes in, only dad gives her a look and she sticks up her hands, “Okay, okay. Grown boys, I get it. You can take care of yourselves.”

Dean doesn’t even get the chance to give Sam any shit. The second that dad and Kate leave, Sam grabs his toothbrush and his overnight bag and makes a beeline for the bathroom. The only reason Dean knows he found it is the door slam that reverberates through the whole house.

Well then.

Dean unpacks and pulls on his pajamas in complete silence. He can’t keep his mind from drifting, and tonight in the Dean Winchester monoplex is all Castiel Novak all the time. For whatever reason, that doofus’ toothy smile quells the lump of nerves in his chest.

His phone sounds from the pocket of his jeans not once, but twice. One is a message from dad, asking if Sam is all right, and the other,

_‘Did you make it to Windom in one piece?’_

Dean’s grin broadens despite his reply, _‘Bodies are in one piece. Cant speak for the brains.’_

_‘Please note that I purposefully did not inquire afteryour sanity.’_

_‘Dont get smart with me novak’_

_‘No, I wouldn’t want to expose you to something so new.’_

_‘Dick.’_

_‘Well, that too. ;)’_

“Dean?”

Dean almost chucks his phone across the room--destroy the evidence (or something)--but it’s not Sam or dad or even Kate.

It’s Adam.

“Oh, hey dude,” Dean tosses his phone onto the pullout. “I thought you were supposed to be asleep.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get to show you any of my stuff,” Adam reasons and unceremoniously dumps an armful of toys onto the floor.

“Whoa,” Dean raises his eyebrows. Though overwhelmed, Dean can’t stop himself from kneeling down beside the pile. “No lie, this is the most toys I’ve ever seen in one place,” he says, then amends, “Outside of a comic con or a comic book store or something.”

Adam takes great care in showing Dean each toy.

“I used to play with toys a lot, but now I like to collect them,” says Adam. “Minecraft is way more fun anyway.”

“No kidding,” Dean reaches toward the middle of the pile and wraps his fingers around the hilt of, “Dude, is this a lightsaber?”

“Yeah!” Adam scoots forward. “I got it from Disneyland when we went to visit my cousins in California.”

Adam grabs it and presses the button on the handle. The goddamn thing _glows_ bright green, and when Adam swings it, it fucking hums like it’s the real deal.

“Mom said no,” Adam says, “But dad caved.”

Dean swallows, his fingers itching to reach out and grab the lightsaber back, then the rest of the toys, then the house and then dad. All of it. Dean wants all of it, so much so that the sticky green critters crawling under his skin have given way to a gaping void of hollow black.

Dean hears his phone sound again. While Adam is busy with his toys, Dean gets up to his knees and rummages through the folds of blankets on the pullout. After far too long a search, Dean finds his phone glowing with another message from Cas.

_‘Was that too forward?’_

“Why are you sweating?”

“None of your business, dweeb,” Dean snipes back without thinking, only to get an indignant, “Hey!” right back.

Shit.

“Dude, it’s just ribbing,” Dean explains. “Like, little jabs. I’m not actually making fun of you; it’s just what brothers do.”

“I have friends who have brothers,” Adam scowls back. “They don’t talk to each other like that.”

“Yeah, maybe not in front of you,” Dean says just as Sam shuffles back into the den, face washed and pajamas on, looking all but dead inside.

“S’up, bitch?” Dean asks.

“Fuck off, jerk,” Sam shoots back.

Dean turns to Adam, “See?”

Sam looks at Adam too. He says, “I thought you were supposed to be sleeping.

“I am,” Adam gives Sam an imploring look as Dean gives a big wink.

“Okay, dweeb,” Sam crunches his eyebrows and flops down onto the makeshift bed.

“Hey, that’s what Dean called me,” Adam frowns.

“I know,” Sam grumbles. “I heard him.”

At which point Adam turns back to Dean and asks, “Am I dweeb now?”

Dean nods and claps him on the shoulder.

“Welcome to the brotherhood, dweeb.”

* * *

 

Sam only wakes because his phone buzzes under his cheek. He peels the glass screen off of his skin and rubs his face, indulging in a few blissful moments before he remembers where he is. The message on his phone is from Dean, and all it reads is, _‘wake up we’re gonna be late’._

Ugh.

Sam sets his phone back on the pullout and rolls over. He must have fallen asleep mid-text last night. The last thing he remembers is rage messaging Gabriel while Dean and Adam played lightning round speed dating (or, whatever the brotherly equivalent of that may be). For whatever reason, Gabriel’s stupid jokes and off-kilter conversation soothed Sam--so much so that he was actually able to fall asleep while Adam and Dean clucked away.

“Sammy,” dad’s voice comes from the doorway. Oh, he does not like that at _all_.

“Sam,” he corrects.

“Sam,” dad amends, and Sam rolls over to look at him. He’s already dressed for the day ahead, in his dad jeans and t-shirt, with a baseball cap somehow fitted over his massive skull.

“What?” Sam finally asks.

“Come on,” dad claps. “Get up, get some breakfast. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

Sam lets out a long groan, but even in his surly morning fog he finds himself complying.

Damn it.

He shuffles to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, then makes a half-assed attempt at making himself look presentable for the day ahead of him. By the time he gets into the kitchen, Kate is cooking on the stove and dad is all but running around trying to get all of their stuff together--all while Dean and Adam sit at the tiny kitchen table with a box of crayons between them.

“Are you coloring?” Sam asks.

Dean and Adam both glance up at the same time with similar looks on their faces. The sudden similarity makes Sam’s empty stomach go sour.

“Dude, you should see the coloring books this kid’s got,” says Dean. “You could go for a whole week straight and still have more left to color.”

“Aren’t you a little old for coloring books?” Sam asks, but before Adam can process this question, Dean replies, “Suddenly a twenty-two year old man can’t color whenever he damn well pleases?”

“I meant Adam,” Sam rolls his eyes and sits down across from Dean.

Adam frowns, but Dean jumps in with a harsh, “Knock it off, Sam.”

“Well, I hope you’re not too old for a little breakfast,” Kate turns around and sets a plate of waffles in front of him. Sam stares at them, and thanks to a can of whipped cream and a handful of blueberries, the waffles stare right back.

“Do you have any yogurt or cereal?” Sam asks.

Dean’s foot hits him square in the shin.

“What’s that?” Kate cocks her head, a knowing look in her eye.

Sam shifts and picks up a fork, “I said, ‘thank you, Kate’.”

“That’s what I thought you said,” she nods and strides over to the fridge. While Sam starts to guilt-eat his waffles, Kate shuffles around until there’s another plate in front of him.

A bowl, actually.

“Plain yogurt and granola,” Kate gives him a wink and grabs his first plate. “Which is great, because I didn’t make enough waffles for myself,” she says and punctuates this statement by taking a large forkful of waffle into her mouth.

“I--” Sam starts, but nothing comes out.

Strike that. Nothing that _should_ come out comes out. Instead he ends up saying, “Did they reboot Twilight Zone and no one told me?”

Kate lets out a laugh and asks, “Why, because you were rude and I ended up giving you what you wanted anyway?”

Sam looks to Dean, but he’s too busy coloring with his new best friend.

“I have a soft spot for you Winchester men,” Kate replies with a shrug and leaves it at that.

Sam eats his breakfast up until dad is practically pushing him out the front door. Oddly enough, the fact that Kate won’t be with them is a little unsettling. If Dean and Adam are already stuck on each other, that leaves Sam with no one but dad for company.

Maybe he can tuck and roll out of the car before they get onto the highway.

He only seriously considers this before dad gets to the highway, at which point Sam recalls (about a second before it happens) that dad is kind of a madman once the speed limit goes above 50 mph. He’s also in the front seat (of course), so there’s no hope of his escape going unnoticed.

“Stanford,” dad marvels then, apropos of nothing. “My dad was a Cornell man.”

“I thought you didn’t know your dad,” Sam says back.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know _about_ him,” dad shakes his head. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us if this is how it’s gonna be.”

Sam huffs and looks out the window. His yogurt and granola are starting some unholy war deep in the pit of his stomach, and when dad goes over a big bump in the road it only gets worse.

They cannot get to Minneapolis fast enough.

As soon as dad puts the car in park, Sam tumbles out of the passenger side door and nearly falls flat on the asphalt below.

“Whoa, you okay, Sammy?” Dean asks. Rather than delivering the biting comment on the tip of his tongue, Sam decides just to nod for now and address the new little brother thing later.

It’s just as well, since Adam says not a moment later, “I don’t want any!”

“Yeah, well I’m not asking, I’m telling,” dad replies. “Hand out, now.”

Dean and Sam peer around to the other side of the car, where dad squirts a dollop of sunscreen into a dejected Adam’s hand.

“This stuff is gross,” Adam pouts, but rubs the cream into his skin.

“You can do whatever you want when you’re eighteen,” dad says and tosses the sunscreen bottle back into the car. “Until then, it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re safe, and safety includes skin cancer prevention.”

“Whatever,” Adam mutters.

Meanwhile, dad gives Dean and Sam a grin and asks, “Ready for some baseball?”

Their seats inside the stadium aren’t the greatest. Before the first inning even starts, Sam already finds himself uncomfortably crowded by Dean on his right side and a rotund older man on his left. And, of course, Dean is too busy goofing around with Adam to realize that Sam is coming closer and closer to developing trauma-induced claustrophobia.

Sam texts Gabriel this very thought, only to get the response, _‘Trauma? You know what trauma is, right?’_

_‘Really? That’s what you’re going to say to me right now?’_

_‘You don’t think this is a slight overreaction to your situation? No one shot your puppy dead right in front of you, for fuck’s sake. You’re squeezed between your brother and a fat guy at a baseball game, waiting for your dad to come back with food for you.’_

_‘Are you kidding me? I’m fucking miserable.’_

_‘I didn’t say you weren’t. Just think before you go throwing around words like trauma is all I’m saying. People who have actually been traumatized might find your trivialization a little unnerving.’_

Sam’s eyebrows furrow so low that his forehead starts to hurt. Just as he’s about to text back, another message comes through.

_‘You’re going to be fine, Sam. And if not, I’ll come to Minnesota and avenge you. I’ll even beat up your dad if you want me to #chivalryain’tdead’_

_‘There is less than nothing chivalrous about you.’_

_‘Fair enough. But it sounded good, right?’_

“Yo, Sammy,” Dean elbows him in the side. He holds out a hot dog and a soda, and despite his lack of appetite Sam takes them both.

“Thanks, dad,” Sam says with noticeably less tightness in his chest.

Huh.

By bottom of the first inning, Sam still hasn’t touched his hot dog or drink. Meanwhile, Dean has scarfed down both food and drink and appears to be waiting for an invitation to do the same with Sam’s.

“Here,” Sam grumbles and passes the hot dog to Dean.

“Sweet,” Dean takes it and stuffs a sizeable bite into his mouth.

“When did you tame your gag reflex?” Sam asks.

“When did you tame your shut the fuck up reflex?” Dean shoots back.

“Eloquent.”

Dean flips him off.

Sam looks past Dean to dad and Adam. Dad is telling him something, but Sam is too far away to hear. Dean frowns and follows Sam’s line of sight, neither of them saying a word when dad puts an arm around Adam’s shoulders and gives him a hug.

Sam grabs his phone and texts with hands shaking, _‘Suddenly John ‘Feelings are Bad’ Winchester is snuggling up with his other kid.’_

_‘Wtf? Maybe he’s trying to make sure this one doesn’t go gay with neglect.’_

It’s one of the stupidest things Sam has ever read, but it coaxes a bombastic laugh out of his chest.

Another message follows, _‘I’m not trying to be insensitive, by the way. Your whole deal up there is fucked. I’m just trying to help you feel better, but I’ll stop if you want.’_

Sam’s face softens and he has to reply, _‘No don’t stop. You made me feel a lot better, so thank you. I’m really glad you’re in my corner.’_

_‘Any time, kid. If anyone’s worth cheering up in my life, it’s you.’_

It’s Sam’s chest that goes soft this time--or, goes soft and then tight at the same time, somehow? There’s a pang of longing, and Sam knows the only cure is Gabriel. Whether it’s messaging him through this entire game or hopping a bus back to Sioux Falls just so he can put his head in Gabriel’s lap, so he can fall asleep with Gabriel’s fingers in his hair and the smell of his soap and skin in his nose.

And even better? Gabriel would probably let him fall asleep like that. Hell, Gabriel might even encourage him without trying to shake him down for a blowjob with a, _“Hey, while you’re down there…”_

Sam doesn’t even register the sound of the batter hitting a homerun, nor the following raucous celebration in the stands. The rush in his ears deafens him to everything. That silly, stupid love bug in his chest numbs him to all but heart flutters and cheesy smiles.

Damn it, he has to come clean, doesn’t he?

There is so much wrong with this whole situation that he should probably do at least one thing right. How do you do a gentle let down, though? Moreover, how do you gently let down the brother of the guy who gives you such intense butterflies? Sam turns to Dean of all people, but hey, his options for immediate advice are very limited right now.

Only, when Sam turns, there’s no Dean--just an empty seat.

“Where’d Dean go?” Sam asks, only to be met with another rousing cheer from the crowd.

When Sam asks again, dad replies, “Went to the bathroom, I think.”

“Right,” Sam nods and stands. “Your attention to detail is admirable, as always.”

He scoots through the aisle and takes the steps up two by two, sharply on the lookout for any sign of Dean. Then he remembers--duh--they both have phones. Sam texts and gets Dean’s location, and in less than two minutes is on a bench just outside the restrooms, right next to his brother.

Big brother.

Sam doesn’t know that he’ll ever be used to that. However, given the fact that he intends on forgetting all about dad and his new family as soon as possible, getting used to all of this feels like a moot point.

“Hey,” Sam finally says after too long in silence. “Everything okay?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but instead asks, “What did you think of Kate?”

Sam feels his nose twitch as he shrugs, and replies, “She was nice, I guess. Actually, a lot more tolerable than I thought she’d be.”

“And Adam’s awesome,” Dean agrees and puts his face in his hands. Without looking up he concludes, “Guess dad’s one lucky son of a bitch after all.”

Sam swallows, his nerves tying up in sympathetic bundles. He says, “At least dad never smothered us. And I think I would’ve gone batty with Kate on my ass about everything.”

Dean smiles. There’s a note of sadness behind it as he says, “You wouldn’t have. Not if you had her from the get-go. She’s a mom. That’s what moms are like.”

Sam’s stomach sours. Most days, he can forget that he never got to have a mom. Dean was a fine substitute and everything--actually, no. Dean was four years old when shit hit the fan. Sam doesn’t remember anything from then, but Dean does. As curious as Sam is, he knows better than to ask about it.

Dean wasn’t his mom. Caregiver, confidant, number one cheerleader, yeah, but his mom? That’s an unfair role to thrust upon a little kid. Go figure, though, right? For Sam and Dean, life has always been unfair.

Sam puts his arms around Dean and squeezes tight. When Dean goes stiff, Sam explains, “If I could’ve gotten the shit end of the stick with any brother in the world, I’m glad it was you. You took care of me. You still do.”

Dean sniffs, “Hey man, that’s what you do for little brothers.” Dean finally hugs back, and continues, “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t trade you for any other brother. Not for Adam, and not for any other brothers we may have. You’re pretty awesome.”

Sam smirks, “I learned from the best,” and then laughs when Dean shoves at him.

“Okay, you ruined it,” Dean says. “Moment over.”

“Aw, come on,” Sam teases. “Doesn’t the love of your little brother mean anything?”

“Whatever,” Dean rolls his eyes, then mutters, “Bitch…”

Sam beams.

“Jerk.”

* * *

 

Gabriel has been scarce all week. Ever since Castiel spoke to him on Monday, in fact. Were Castiel in the business of wondering what other people were up to, he might find this suspicious. As it stands, Castiel is currently on the floor of the queen of Moondor’s tent, looking up at the white dots of sun bleeding through red canvas, still trying to put together a confession.

A week might seem like a lot of time, but Castiel is mediocre at conversations on his best day. With something so serious, he found it was best to over-prepare.

“Day two and you’re this bummed out?” asks Charlie.

“The intricate tapestry of my personal problems is overwhelming,” Castiel replies. “I thought dressing up would help, but it just makes me sadder.”

Charlie heaves a sigh and squats down beside him in all her armor. “Look, take it from someone who knows the Brothers Winchester pretty well: they’re idiots. They will always be idiots.”

Castiel props himself up on his elbows and regards her carefully. She’s never been anything but kind to Castiel, and, from what he can tell, she’s honest in her friendliness. He sits up all the way and rubs his hands through his hair.

“I feel like an awful person,” he says.

“No,” Charlie shakes her head. “You couldn’t be. Dean likes you, and Dean doesn’t like awful people.”

“What if I’m the exception that proves the rule?” Castiel asks.

“You are thinking about this way too much,” Charlie concludes. “What constitutes ‘awful’ is subjective, so it’s a bullshit label anyway, and you’re not awful by anybody’s standards.”

“What about--”

“Dude,” Charlie puts up a hand. “Not the time to play devil’s advocate.”

Castiel sighs, but agrees, “Fine.”

“Come on,” Charlie stands back up and holds out her hand. “If there’s one thing LARP is good for, it’s taking you out of your real world problems.”

Castiel looks from her hand up to her face. Even when she’s not smiling, she appears to be smiling. He takes her hand and helps her pull him up.

“Now,” Charlie begins, an air of command in her inflection, “since my handmaiden is away on a far off journey, I would ask that you stand in for him as I make my rounds about the kingdom.”

“Um, I’m a wizard,” Castiel looks down at his costume. A deep blue cloak hangs off his shoulders, keeping the thrifted pants and shirt almost entirely from sight. Around his waist hangs a belt with a few sachets of random leaves and rocks attached.

“Then today you shall be my wizard,” Charlie smiles and reaches out to adjust the fold of his collar.

Castiel doesn’t miss the rumblings that growl low through the kingdom--all this guff about an outsider being so newly close to the queen. At first Castiel felt as though he was in on the joke and opted to play along, but the second that someone spits at his feet he stops dead in his tracks.

“What the hell?” he stares a hole right through Charlie’s head.

“Hey, give it a rest,” she whispers. “You’re the one who dropped in here without a backstory. For all they know, you’re an assassin.”

Castiel frowns. “So… do I make an announcement or something?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs back. “Do you often go around decreeing to strangers that you’re a transplanted Jewish New Yorker living in South Dakota?”

Castiel looks from her to the group of people that now surrounds them. He’s breaking character, and Charlie told him not to do that. Shit.

He straightens his spine and sets his eyebrows low, “Have you confused this for a theater? If you must gawk, I suggest going to… the…” He shrinks under the eyes of the small knot of people around them.

“Rest assured,” Charlie raises her hand to the crowd, “He’s all right. Nobody need worry; we are in the capable hands of Moondor’s new Grand High Wizard.”

Apparently, this does not sit well with a young man in the back of the crowd.

“I mean you no harm,” says Castiel. “I come in peace.”

“Hey-o, mixing genres much?”

Castiel and Charlie both whip around at once to see Dean behind them, all dressed up and ready to play. Charlie must think more quickly than Castiel, because she pulls him into an enormous hug before Castiel can even tell his feet to move.

“Okay, if you’re going to keep breaking character you have to go.”

“Shut up, Morris,” Charlie hums contentedly as she basks in Dean’s hug. Over her shoulder, Dean’s eyes stay fixed on Castiel. The middle of his guts start to radiate heat outward, his heart picks up its pace from a jaunty jog to a sprint. Dean’s not looking at his eyes, or even his face. Dean’s eyes are all over him.

Castiel didn’t think it was possible to feel exposed in a giant cloak and worn out boots, but he also didn’t think it was possible that Dean would ever look at him like that to begin with.

Then, out of nowhere, Dean comes out of his hug and over to Cas and plants this giant kiss right on his lips.

“Oh, boy,” Charlie sighs, but that’s the last thing he can get before his brain starts lighting up like Las Vegas at night. He grabs Dean’s face in his hands and keeps them pressed together for as long as he can.

When they finally do pull apart, it’s so they can breathe and so Charlie can all but push them back to her tent.

“We’re going to get banned from this place if you two don’t shape up,” she says. “Hash it out in here and come out when you’re ready to be upstanding citizens of the kingdom of Moondor.”

“You know you’re not really a queen, right?” Dean asks.

Charlie narrows her eyes. “I will send you to the stocks again, Winchester,” she warns, and then manages to do the tent flap equivalent of slamming a door.

Castiel doesn’t let Dean question Charlie’s attitude. Before he can say a damn word, Castiel pulls him back in. Dean’s lips are warm and soft amid the rough scratch of his stubble, the feel of which starts some wicked stirrings down in Castiel’s underwear.

This time when they part, they’re alone. No family on the other side of the door, nobody creeping in the corners of the tent. It’s just the two of them.

“Sorry,” Dean swipes at his bottom lip.

“Why are you apologizing?” Castiel cocks his head. “I was under the impression that kissing someone like that was a good thing… provided there is consent between the two parties, which there is.”

“What are the chances of you shutting up if I kiss you again?” Dean asks.

“That only works in movies,” Castiel points out. “If you do that to me, I will be less than pleased.”

“Noted,” Dean says, a bashful smile curving his lips.

 _God_ , he’s cute.

“So, how was your trip?” Castiel asks.

“Good,” Dean nods, eyes now drifting from object to object in the tent. He does this until he caves. Then he looks right at Castiel and says, “Shitty. Really shitty.”

“Really?” Castiel takes a half step forward. “From the way it sounded, I thought it went okay.”

“No, it went fine,” Dean sighs. “I had to get out as soon as possible, but. No one was yelling or murdering or anything like that.”

“Good to know,” Castiel nods. “And how are you?”

Dean shrugs, “Fine, I guess.”

“... You are profoundly _not_ fine, Dean,” Castiel frowns.

Dean smears a hand over his face, words coming to him too slowly to put together. Instead, he just laughs and asks, “Did you really expect me to be?”

A beat, then Castiel shakes his head.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Okay, then,” Dean nods, apparently abandoning the conversation in favor of reclining on Charlie’s pillow-laden ‘royal’ air bed. Castiel comes to join him, scooting right up beside Dean even though the air mattress is in danger of deflating. When Dean looks over at him, all Castiel can do is stare back.

Dean chuckles and looks up at the canvas above them.

“Never been in bed with a guy before,” he says.

“Really?” Castiel asks.

Dean nods. Castiel, wanting neither to frighten Dean nor diminish his apparent anxiety, asks, “Would it help if you held my hand?”

“Help what?” Dean looks over at him, then down at the hand he’s offering.

Castiel shrugs, “I don’t know. Sometimes touching someone makes you feel better. The article I read was actually about hugs, but hand holding could be effective too, probably.”

“You read an article about hugs?”

“Hugs release oxytocin and dopamine,” Castiel says. “They’re good for you. It’s not exactly news.”

And even though Dean rolls his eyes, he intertwines his fingers with Castiel’s and takes a breath.

“Better?” Castiel asks. Dean hums in affirmation and lets his eyes slip shut.

“Hey,” Cas squeezes his hand. “Don’t fall asleep.”

“Man, I haven’t slept since Wednesday,” Dean yawns. “What makes you think I’m gonna start now?”

“Have you really not slept since then?” Castiel asks. “Because there was _another_ article about sleep deprivation--”

“Dude, read a fucking comic once in a while,” Dean says. “Or a Harry Potter book or some shit.”

“I don’t reread Harry Potter until summertime,” Castiel frowns.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

Castiel grins and nearly lets out a (particularly undignified) squeal when Dean pokes him in the side with his other hand.

The rest of his fingers remain tangled with Castiel’s.   

After a few minutes of silence, Dean opens up his eyes and looks Castiel right in the face.

“He’s got everything,” Dean says. “He’s got a cool wife, a cool kid, a nice house… Whoever said life doesn’t have a restart button never met my dad, I guess.”

“It’s not a restart,” Castiel scoots closer. “He wants you and Sam back in his life. He’s changed, right?”

Dean shrugs and scoots in closer to Castiel, so much so that their exhales sync and Dean’s muscles start to relax.

“I remember that, though,” Dean shakes his head. “I remember when it was just me, him, and mom. I can kinda remember him being that happy. Or I can at least remember him playing house while my mom tried to clean up after him and all his fuckups. Kate doesn’t have to do any of that. She can just be herself, live her own life, not have to worry about my dad not coming home.”

Dean scoots in closer to Castiel, so much so that by the time they’re settled again, Castiel has Dean curled up against his chest. It would be a much more pleasant, meaningful position if they weren’t both dressed from head to toe in costume.

Dean sniffles and finally gives Castiel a real look up and down.

“What the hell are you?” he asks.

“I think I’m your new grand high wizard,” says Castiel. “I’m not sure. I still need a backstory--preferably one that won’t put me on anyone’s shit list.”

“Eh, being on someone’s shit list is half the fun,” Dean smiles and lets his eyes slip shut once again. He yawns and gives Castiel another squeeze.

“Thank you,” he says through yet another yawn.

Great. Gabriel just had to be right, didn’t he?

It’s time to talk to Sam.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for being so cool about my extended hiatus. I didn't intend for this chapter to take so long to finish, but you are all so patient and kind. I'm lucky to have such understanding readers. Hopefully, the wait between this chapter and the next won't be nearly as long. 
> 
> Thank you again--you're all awesome!


	8. Chapter 8

“All right, hold.”

Sam groans as both he and Ash push themselves away from the lighting boards. Tech rehearsal is a pain in the ass even when the director isn’t changing his mind about blocking and lights every three minutes, and Sam already has enough to deal with this week. This whole thing is supposed to go until seven o’clock, and after that Sam still has homework _and_ a mountain of studying to do.

AP exams start in one week.

At that moment, Sam’s brain chooses to remind him that even before that, he will turn eighteen years old.

Honestly, he doesn’t have high hopes for living that long. After the nightmare that was their trip to Windom, neither Sam nor Dean has fully recovered. This, unfortunately, means that Dean hasn’t talked to dad since the night they left, and apparently when Dean refuses to talk to dad, dad takes it upon himself to reach out to Sam.

Which is why he refuses to look at his phone when it buzzes in his backpack for the umpteenth time this afternoon. He already told dad that Dean is alive and fine--what the hell else does he need?

“All right there, Sam?” asks Ash from behind his book, _To Infinity and Beyond_ , which, much to Sam’s dissatisfaction, is not a book about the making of the _Toy Story_ film series, but rather the mathematical concept of ‘infinity’.

… only, infinity does sound kind of interesting. Holy shit, what is his life coming to? He can’t even remember what the hell he likes and doesn’t like anymore. The only thing that sounds doable is watching cartoons and eating pizza, but he _can’t_ do that because his entire future hangs in the balance of these next couple of weeks and he’s sitting in a soundproof crackerbox, breathing in heavy air that’s made up of musty theater, B.O., and farts.

“Sam,” Ash says again, snapping Sam back into the booth. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sam mutters and rubs his eyes. “Just stressed, but whatever.”

“Man, you gotta loosen up,” Ash says.

“Easy for you to say,” Sam sighs. He runs his fingers through his hair just as Mr. Shurley calls for action again.

“Ain’t nothin’ easy or hard about it,” Ash marks his page and sets his book down.

“Dude, you’re headed to State in the fall,” Sam dims the lights over the forest scenery. “Never mind the fact that you could have gone anywhere you wanted--”

“I’m going to MIT,” says Ash, and Sam freezes.

When he finds his voice again, the first thing he comes up with is, “Dude, seriously?”

“Yup,” Ash nods without taking his eyes off of the sound board.

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” Sam asks. “That’s a huge deal. I don’t think anyone from this school has ever gone there, like. Ever.”

“I’m not into the accolades that come with it,” Ash stifles a yawn against his wrist. “They got the best program for what I wanna study and they’ll actually make me work for it.”

“But it’s _MI-_ fucking _-T_ ,” Sam enunciates.

“You sayin’ it over and over ain’t gonna change how I feel about it,” says Ash.

“So then,” Sam frowns. “Wait, why the hell aren’t you flipping out about our APs next week?”

“‘cause,” Ash shrugs. “I don’t know. Just not worth it to freak out about ‘em, I guess. Not worth freakin’ out about a lot of stuff, if you ask me.”

It’s something that Sam can’t quite wrap his head around. How--Ash is going to MIT in the fall. Who the hell goes to MIT and doesn’t give a crap about the fact that it’s _MIT_?

“Dude, you’re gonna be set for life,” says Sam.

“Sam, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I don’t think anyone can _be_ set for life,” Ash poses as Mr. Shurley calls for another hold. “Kinda the nature of the beast, isn’t it? You can’t be prepared for somethin’ you don’t know is coming. Sure, you can try, but life’s gonna throw at you what it’s gonna throw at you. It won’t much matter what you trained for or how life’ll let you use it. Sometimes, all you can do is roll with it.”

 _“Sam, Ash,”_ Hannah’s voice sounds over their walkie-talkie. _“Will you pay attention, please? We all want to go home.”_

Sam and Ash look out the window into the theater, where Mr. Shurley gestures wildly at them from the house.

“Shit,” Sam mutters. “Sorry.”

 _“Sorry is for lesser souls,”_ says Hannah.

Sam and Ash can only make faces at the walkie-talkie as they scoot back to their boards and refocus their attention back to the task at hand.

“You’ll be fine, Sam,” Ash says. “Sometimes believing that is all you’re gonna have, so better start believin’ it now.”

Honestly, it sounds like a load of horse shit, but Sam thanks Ash all the same and tries not to swear when Mr. Shurley calls for another hold.

The only good thing that comes out of this hellish afternoon is Gabe. As if Sam wasn’t already smitten enough by that fucking loser, the way his entire being changes as he performs is incredible. Most of all, though, it’s the best Sam has ever seen him.

And the sexiest Sam has ever seen him, which is kind of weird. He gets a look in his eye that, granted, Sam can’t really see from so far away right now, but makes Sam’s legs get all wobbly and his clothes feel too heavy all the same.

When rehearsal is over, Gabriel books it up to the tech booth faster than Sam or Ash can pack up their stuff. While he waits, he grabs Ash’s book off of the floor.

“They wrote a book about _Toy Story_? Hell yeah, that’s aweso--” Gabe pauses, then frowns, “Oh, come on, it’s about _actual_ infinity? You fucking nerds.”

Ash takes his book and wishes them a pleasant evening before taking his leave.

“What a bummer,” says Gabriel. “I was so excited that I was actually going to open a book and read it.”

“That must have been awful,” Sam finds himself smiling.

“You don’t even know,” Gabriel sighs and flops down into the ancient rolling chair behind the soundboard. “Holy fuck, I’m so tired.”

“Aren’t we all,” Sam finally zips up his bag and slides it over his shoulder. “You need a ride home?”

“A ride, yes,” Gabriel says. “Home, not so much.”

“Well, I’m gonna be doing homework and studying all night,” Sam shrugs. “You can come watch me do that, if you want.”

“Can I come _while_ watching you do that?” Gabriel gives a cheeky grin, then laughs when Sam shakes his head and heads out of the booth.

Sam doesn’t even hear the ‘Hey!’ behind him before Gabriel attempts to hop up and wrap his arms around him. It proves to be disastrous, however, when Gabriel ends up on the floor with a sore tailbone.

“Your backpack is so big,” Gabriel groans. “Why is it so big?”

Sam rolls his eyes and helps Gabriel up off of the floor. Their hands stick together by nothing other than their mutual refusal to let the other go. Though Sam’s palm starts to sweat, he doesn’t back off. He just squeezes Gabriel’s hand and smiles when Gabriel squeezes back.

They only drop their hands when they begin to walk again--a precaution that they, infuriatingly, would not have to worry about were they a straight couple.

They’re not a couple. What the hell is Sam even thinking?

Sam drives them back to his house in relative silence. Bobby’s not home, but he did leave Sam twenty dollars for dinner and an apology about having to work late.

“Why doesn’t he just text you or something?” Gabriel asks, trying to decipher the chicken scratch on the scrap of paper on the counter.

“Who knows,” Sam shrugs and pulls out his phone. “I stopped trying to figure him out a long time ago. Incidentally, I think that might be why I understand him so well.”

Gabriel looks up at him with a wonky eyebrow cocked and asks, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Sam sighs. “I think I might be going insane. You want pizza?”

“Obviously,” Gabriel nods and takes a seat on the arm of the couch. “And you’re operating under the presumption that you weren’t already insane, peaches.”

Sam flips him off.

They order an irresponsible amount of pizza and Gabriel manages to convince Sam that it’s no use trying to study until he’s at least had something to eat. So, they sit on the couch and flip channels until they land on some innocuous show about buying beach houses. Though he sits back and keeps his eyes trained on the TV, Sam’s leg won’t stop bouncing and his molars won’t stop grinding.

“So,” Gabriel begins after too long in silence. “I don’t know if you realized this, but this exact situation is the beginning to about half the world’s pornos.”

“That’s a lot of porn,” Sam comments, completely aware that he’s missed the point of the original statement.

There’s half a second between the end of this statement and the feeling of Gabriel’s fingertips on the back of his neck. Goosebumps bloom all down Sam’s arms and legs; his breath comes shorter and shorter as he feels Gabriel’s lips just graze his ear.

“Why hello, Mr. Winchester,” Gabriel’s voice goes all thick and low, “I have the extra-large sausage you ordered.”

Gabriel howls with laughter as Sam shoves him off the couch with a hearty, “Shut _up_ , you freak.”

From his place on the floor, with his feet planted against the threadbare rug, Gabriel continues, “My name is Hans and I am here to pump,” he gives a thrust of his hips, “You up.”

Despite himself, Sam smiles and slides down onto the floor. He grabs Gabriel’s thighs and pulls him in, so close that his ass is all the way in Sam’s lap. There’s a moment where they pause, each looking the other up and down as the world around them bends out of and back into shape.

Gabriel breaks first. He grabs Sam by the hood of his sweater and pulls him down into a kiss. It should be all teeth and bruised lips and bumping noses, but it’s not. Gabriel’s hands let go of Sam’s sweater and come to cup his face instead. His fingers twitch against Sam’s skin, his breath hitches when Sam lays one of his hands over his. When they pull away, his face is (once again) impossible to read.

“What’s that for?” Sam decides to ask, and Gabriel shrugs.

And then he kisses Sam again.

There’s… something. He has to do something, but for the life of him Sam cannot remember what it is. Something overrides the sensible part of Sam’s brain and tells him that all he has to do is kiss Gabriel back.

Yes, kissing Gabriel back is good.

Sam’s head swims when they pull apart again. He must not have been breathing. Blood rushes in his ears as his vision goes clear. Gabriel’s cheeks are a little pink, his eyes a little far off, but he grabs one of Sam’s hands and presses it right against the outline of his erection in his jeans. Sam takes the hint, applies just a little bit of pressure, and Gabriel lets out a soft sigh. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his eyelids flutter shut; his back arches off of the floor and pulls his muscles into a feline stretch.

Sam kneads the heel of his hand into Gabriel’s erection again, this time pulling out a lower sound--one that goes straight from Sam’s ears all the way down to the swell of his own rapidly hardening cock.

Which is in very close proximity to Gabriel’s ass.  

There’s a knock on the front door and, goddamn it, of course the pizza is here _now_.

“Shit,” Gabriel mutters just as Sam shoots up to his feet.

“I’m gonna,” Sam gestures to the door. “And then the… yeah.”

“Eloquent,” Gabriel nods as he undoes the button on his jeans.

“Dude!”

“Go get the door!” Gabriel exclaims, zipper now down and hand in his underwear.

“While you stay here and play with your dick?” Sam asks as the knock on the door sounds again.

“What I do with my dick while you’re out of the room is none of your concern,” Gabriel swallows and gives himself a squeeze. Sam can see the head of his erection just peeking out, but now the pizza delivery person is ringing the doorbell and Sam can only manage a hoarse, “Just a minute!”

He grabs the money off of the counter and darts to the door. Sam is pretty sure the chick delivering the pizza goes to his school, or went to his school at some point, but she doesn’t say anything so neither does Sam. He pays her, tells her to keep the change as her tip, and practically throws the pizza onto the kitchen counter before he comes back to Gabriel.

Who is still on the floor, in the exact place Sam left him, touching himself as slowly as ever. Sam wets his lips and kneels back down between Gabriel’s legs, chewing on his lip before he reaches out and strokes his fingers over the sliver of soft belly skin just above his jeans. Gabriel opens his eyes and removes his hand from himself, looking like he’s got some other grand plan in the works. He sits up and pulls Sam in, but instead of a kiss, he says about a hair’s breadth away from Sam’s lips, “Sit up on the couch.”

But as soon as Sam is up on his feet, ready to park on the couch, Gabriel says, “Lose the pants.”

Sam has never so mindlessly obeyed an order.

Gabriel rifles through his backpack, pulling out squashed up papers and old brown paper bags and who knows what the hell else until he finds what he’s looking for: a condom and a packet of lube.

“Why do you have that?” Sam asks before he can anticipate any kind of answer.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Gabriel asks back. “You wouldn’t ask someone why they carried their inhaler everywhere.”

“By that logic you’re saying that you have to carry lube and condoms because otherwise you might die,” says Sam, and then he frowns. “Maybe. I can’t really think right now.”

“Good,” Gabriel nods and holds the condom and lube between his lips so he can shimmy out of his pants and underwear. Dark blond hair curls around the base of his erection and spreads down his legs. If he’d take off his jacket and shirt, Sam would be able to see the line of hair up to his bellybutton, and the fine dusting up on his chest.

But Gabriel’s jacket and shirt stay on as he comes to sit on Sam’s lap. He tosses the condom and lube onto the cushion beside them and covers Sam’s mouth with his once again. Through the muddle of his mind, Sam finally makes the connection between what Gabriel pulled out of his bag and what they’re about to do.

And because Gabriel has impeccable timing, that’s right when his hand closes around both his and Sam’s cocks, squeezing one toe-curling stroke upward.  

“Fuck, hang on,” Sam pants. Gabriel lets them both go, looking to use every last ounce of his self-control to relocate his hands to his own thighs. Sam gulps, catches his breath, and gathers every coherent thought he can. He inhales, exhales, and opens his eyes. Every bit of Gabriel’s skin is flushed, including a blotchy spread of pink over his nose and cheeks and chin and forehead.

“I’ve, um,” Sam swallows, eyes unable to leave Gabriel’s. “I’ve never done this, with. Y’know, the um. You--on the top, or like, on my lap or whatever and it’s--”

“Holy hell,” Gabriel laughs, stroking a hand through Sam’s hair. “You’re a fucking nervous wreck.”

“No shit,” Sam laughs back, though it’s nowhere near as controlled as it should be. “Have you ever…?”

Gabriel smiles and nods, “Once or twice on the receiving end. Feels nice if you do it right.”

“I don’t,” Sam’s words catch again--god, he can feel every single one of Gabriel’s movements. Even the slightest shift or twitch makes his cock drag over Sam’s and it’s making Sam’s skin too small. He asks, “How do I do it right?”

Gabriel takes Sam’s face in his hands and locks eyes with him. His thumbs stroke nicely against his cheeks, and Sam lets out a sharp exhale.

“There’s no instruction manual,” Gabriel tells him, then pecks a kiss to his lips before he confirms, “You’re gonna be fine, Sam, and so will I. Don’t worry about it, all right?”

Sam takes another breath and nods, “All right.”

Gabriel chews his bottom lip for a second before he grabs the lube packet from beside them. He tears it open with his teeth and gives this grin that makes Sam’s hips twitch.

“You wanna get me ready?” Gabriel asks.

Holy fuck, this is real. Gabriel is ready to let Sam put his dick in him and it’s actually happening. It’s not a dream or an extended homeroom fantasy. Gabriel is actually drizzling lube onto his fingers and guiding his hand.

“You ever fingered anyone before?” Gabriel asks. Sam nods.

“Girls,” he says, “But yeah.”

“All right, then this’ll be a cakewalk for you,” Gabriel smiles and lets go of Sam’s wrist just as his fingertips brush against his hole. Sam’s hands shake, but Gabriel kisses him and, yeah.

Yeah, Sam can totally do this.

Gabriel lets out a long, low sound as Sam’s middle finger slides inside him. He’s not met with as much resistance as he anticipated, but he doesn’t know if it’s rude to ask Gabriel if that’s normal or--

“Come on, Sam,” Gabriel huffs. “I finger myself pretty regularly, you can pick up the pace.”

The thought of Gabriel with his own fingers inside him is nearly enough to end this entire encounter much earlier than Sam would prefer. That’s spank bank material that is definitely to be revisited at a later time, when spanking is what he is doing. He bites back his nerves and gives a few more strokes before adding his index finger.

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” Gabriel all but purrs against him.

“Jesus,” Sam huffs. “You really like this that much?”

“Just shut up and finger me so I can ride your dick, Winchester,” Gabriel demands, then cuts off any opportunity for a response by putting his mouth over Sam’s. Gabriel is hot and tight around his fingers, and the thought of being inside him--Christ, the thought of this heat squeezing around him is enough to make Sam lose his breath.

“Hey, do me a favor,” Gabriel says, “Just. Curl your fingers a little, like you’re-- _fuck--_ ”

Sam groans as Gabriel pitches forward and digs his fingers into his biceps. Heat rolls off of him, sweat beads and trickles down his forehead, his temples, his neck.

“Hey,” Sam pauses his ministrations. “Take off your jacket before you spontaneously combust.”

Gabriel lets out an indignant growl but shucks his jacket nonetheless. Underneath, he wears a brick red, longsleeve t-shirt.

“Dude, seriously?” Sam asks. “How are you not dying?”

“God, shut up,” Gabriel tries to ride back on Sam’s hand. His cock looks like it’s about to burst, and a bead of precome drools down the shaft, all nice and slick. Sam brings up his free hand and drags a finger through the wetness.

Gabriel honest-to-god whimpers.

“Take off your shirt,” Sam says.

“No,” Gabriel swallows. “Trust me, I’m doing us both a favor. No way you wanna see all this in action.”

“You know I’ve seen you naked before, right?”

“Yeah, but you’ve never seen the gut and the fur suit in motion,” Gabriel says, then whines as Sam’s fingers slide out of him. He watches through lust-glazed eyes as Sam reaches back and pulls his own shirt off of his torso. Sam rests both hands on Gabriel’s hips and and smiles.

“There,” he says. “We’re even.”

“Oh, my god,” Gabriel grips his sweat-dark blond hair in his hands. “You’re hot as fuck, okay? How is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“Okay, first of all, you’re hot as fuck too,” Sam says. “Second, I look like someone made me out of toothpicks and popsicle sticks, so I don’t wanna hear it.”

Gabriel laughs, looking like he’s about to start hyperventilating. So, Sam grabs the condom from the cushion beside them and tears it open. The rubber is slick and Sam almost drops it, but Gabriel grabs it and rolls it down for him. The rest of the lube pours nice and cool down over the condom and Sam’s cock.

Sam has to put himself very, very far out of the situation as Gabriel lines them up and sinks down.

Sam can only swear as he screws his eyes shut, and holds onto Gabriel’s hips as tightly as his fingers will let him. If he thought he could feel every movement of Gabe’s body before, it’s nothing compared to this.

“Sam,” Gabriel’s voice comes out nice and soft. He opens his eyes and is met with the sight of Gabriel completely naked. His entire body is pink and shiny with sweat: under the hair on his chest and all around each and every roll of pudge on his belly. He’s fucking gorgeous and it’s too much.

It’s especially too much when Gabriel ducks down and kisses him again. The sensations don’t give Sam enough time to divert his attention. The weight on his lap and the pulsing, tight heat around his cock culminate in an explosive pump of his hips as he fucks his orgasm up into Gabriel.

 _Shit_.

“Goddamn it,” Sam smacks his head back. The heat in his face rapidly turns into burning shame. He tries to pull out while simultaneously drafting an apology in his head, but Gabriel won’t budge. Instead, he rests one hand on the back of Sam’s neck and uses the other to guide Sam’s hand to his leaky, purpling cock.

Though he’s already come, Sam stays hard, and even if he’s just a little too sensitive right now, he still whimpers as Gabriel fucks himself on his lap and thrusts into his hand.

“So good, Sam,” Gabriel breathes against his lips. “You feel so good.”

A fire ignites in Sam’s belly--a different kind than the one before. Suddenly it’s less to do with how Gabriel makes Sam feel and everything to do with the exact opposite. It’s Sam that’s got Gabriel’s hair dark and wilting with sweat. It’s Sam that’s fucked the expression clear off of Gabriel’s face. Gabriel’s dick is whipping strings of precome left and right as he bounces, all because Sam is making him feel _that good_.

Sam’s instincts kick into high gear and his body begins to move again. He bucks Gabriel out of his rhythm and sets up his own. Gabriel’s arms wrap around his neck as he tries to match the pace, but Sam holds him down by his hot, sweaty, sticky shoulders.

Gabriel has done enough of the work; the least Sam can do is take him the rest of the way.

Neither of them breathes right--they’re all grunts and groans and gasps with an underscore of skin slapping against skin. Sam barely registers the teeth sinking into the skin on his neck as Gabriel careens headfirst over the edge. He paints up Sam’s chest and torso with sticky white ropes of come, fills his ears with some of the nicest sounds ever to grace humanity.  

Sam holds him until his orgasm subsides, kissing patches of skin until it’s just the two of them and their cocks twitching softly where they rest. He thinks he may have come a second time, but honestly has no definitive idea. Everything is the best, most zen blur Sam has ever experienced.

Meanwhile, Gabriel looks like he’s just run a marathon. He barely responds when Sam pushes a series of sloppy, tired kisses to his jaw and neck, and doesn’t even speak when Sam finally pulls out of him.

They catch their breath. Sam prepares for some smartass remark, but for once it appears that Gabriel has nothing to say. So Sam breaks the silence to ask, “You wanna take the pizza up to my room and watch a movie?”

Gabriel nods.

Getting dressed again is painstaking, so much so that Sam and Gabriel can only get their undies and shirts back on before they grab the rest of their clothes and trudge upstairs. Of course, it’s Sam that remembers to go back down for the pizza. When he returns upstairs, Gabriel is face down on his bed.

“Shit, are you okay?” Sam asks.

Gabriel nods again.

“You’re not talking,” Sam frowns. “Why aren’t you talking?”

“Because you fucked me so hard I can still feel your dick in my throat,” Gabriel replies, and Sam lets out a big sigh of relief. He sets the pizza box on his desk and sits down in his chair, though why he doesn’t go to Gabriel and hold him is a mystery not even he can solve.

“Shit,” Gabriel finally sighs and sits up. There are blotches of wet on his shirt where the come and sweat have soaked through, and he glances up at Sam with this long suffering look and says, “You just _had_ to be a fuck machine.”

Sam huffs a laugh and asks, “Are you complaining?”

Gabriel looks him right in the eye and challenges, “Yes. How dare you make me come that hard.”

“The nerve,” Sam shakes his head, then smiles when he sees the look of utter satisfaction on Gabriel’s face.

Out of nowhere, he hears himself ask, “Can I come over there?”

Gabriel’s eyes catch his again. However, where Sam expects a brush off and a quip he gets a, “Yeah.”

He nearly trips over his feet, but luckily he doesn’t have too far to go. He’s still wobbly from before, not entirely back in the world and yet somehow with more clarity of mind than he’s had in a long time.

He runs his fingers through Gabriel’s hair, then brings them together in a kiss.

A nice, soft, satiated kiss that ends as soon as it began. Sam rests their foreheads together and shuts his eyes.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he says.

Crap, he shouldn’t have said that. The last thing he needs is to ruin the moment by saying something stupi--

Gabriel meets him in a kiss again, this one an unmistakable affirmation that yes, Gabriel will miss him too.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell are you doing?”

With his back on the floor and his legs flush against the wall, Castiel supposes it’s a valid question. However, the judgment coming off of Michael and Lucifer seems, in a word, unnecessary.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to think when I’m on the floor,” he explains.

“That’s all well and good,” says Michael. “But what about that rat parade on your chest?”

Castiel cranes his neck so he can get a good look at Hamilton and Sterling, the both of them chewing on an apple slice without a care in the world. Looking from his hamsters to his brothers, Castiel says, “I never make a decision without my advisors.”

“Holy God,” Lucifer mutters, not to Michael or to Castiel, but to Noah, who is cuddled up against his chest.

“To be fair,” Castiel yawns against his wrist. “I didn’t think anyone was home.”

When Michael crouches beside him, Castiel goes back to staring at the ceiling.

“What’s up there that’s got you thinking so hard?” Michael asks.

Castiel shrugs, though he knows exactly what he’s been thinking about because… well, because he’s the one that’s been thinking about it.

“Trouble with your beau?” Lucifer guesses as he and Noah join Michael and Castiel on the floor.

“Excuse the two of you,” Castiel looks back at them, “I already have my advisor quota filled, thank you.”

“Well, in the interest of keeping you out of the psych ward, you get a panel of human advisors for now,” says Michael. “Come on, little brother, what’s up?”

As much as Castiel hates to admit it, a human advisory board is probably best for this situation. Not that Hamilton and Sterling don’t make excellent listeners, mind, it’s just--well, they have each other. They’ve always had each other. What would they know about letting a friend down easily?

“All right, men, brace yourselves,” Castiel says and sits up very slowly. Hamilton and Sterling claw and scratch at his shirt until they’ve got a firm grip. Their apples, however, tumble down into Castiel’s lap.

“I swear to god, you are so fucking weird,” Michael mutters as the hamsters scurry up to the safety of Castiel’s shoulders.

“I appreciate your need to point this out for what feels like the eight millionth time in the time we have known each other,” says Castiel. “However, I can’t say it’s very helpful.”

“Sure it is,” Lucifer tells Noah. “Just stop being so fucking weird.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that up at the next board meeting,” Castiel mutters.

“All right, shut up,” Michael leans over just far enough to whack Lucifer in the head. “Tell us of your strife, my child.”

“I have to break things off with Sam,” Castiel says. “And I would appreciate it if we could refrain from turning this into the Michael and Lucifer show.”

“What the fuck is the Michael and Lucifer show?” Lucifer asks. “How come I’ve never seen any money from that?”

“Because I made sure all royalties went to me,” Michael replies and scoots closer to Castiel so he can say, “I thought you liked Sam.”

“I do,” Castiel nods. “I just… happen to like his brother more.”

The proverbial brakes screech and Michael’s eyes go big.

“His brother,” he repeats.

Castiel nods, only for Lucifer to snort and reply, “You may have to fight Michael for him.”

Castiel feels his eyebrows scrunch as he turns his eyes back to Michael and asks, “ _Really_?”

“All right, you cannot blame me for that,” Michael argues, “Fuck’s sake, it looks like someone cut him right out of a slab of marble! We’re just supposed to sit here and pretend we’re not aroused?”

Lucifer covers Noah’s ears and implores, “Mind the kid, ya fuckin’ animal.”

“And you’re married,” Castiel points out.

“I keep kosher too,” says Michael. “Doesn’t mean bacon doesn’t smell incredible.”

“Oy, now you’ve done it,” Lucifer rolls his eyes as Michael loudly declares, “We were not put on this earth to be confined to the expectations thrust upon us by the marriage industrial complex.”

Castiel turns to Lucifer and asks, “What the hell is he talking about?”

“Who the fuck knows,” Lucifer holds Noah to his chest, “I stopped listening at least five years ago.”

And Michael continues, “Just because I have chosen to spend my life in legal partnership with a woman I love does _not_ mean I can’t think about or openly declare my appreciation of aesthetically pleasing women _or_ men.”

Castiel frowns and looks back at Lucifer, “I asked you not to turn it into the Michael and Lucifer Show, didn’t I?”

“He’s keeping all the royalty checks,” Lucifer gestures at Michael, “Talk to him.”

“Hey!” Castiel exclaims, startling not only his brothers but the hamsters on his shoulders. “Is it possible for two minutes-- _two minutes_ \--that you two can focus on something that isn’t yourselves?”

Michael and Lucifer look at each other, then back to Castiel. Lucifer’s the one that says, “Two minutes is a really long time. A hundred and twenty seconds. One-two-zero.”

“I know how long two minutes is!” Castiel shouts and stands, careful to keep Hamilton and Sterling from falling to the carpet below. “I have an actual problem and all you two want to do is make fun of me, which is why my advisory board is of the rodent and not human persuasion.”

There’s a lot of shuffling, which turns out to be Michael running to and blocking the stairs.

“Move,” Castiel insists.

“Not until you hash out your issues, little brother,” Michael says. He lays a ginger hand on either of Castiel’s biceps and continues, “Now, why don’t you come back over here--”

Castiel shoves Michael away from him, though Michael hardly shifts from his position. He might not look like it, but Michael is more or less built like a brick house. Before Castiel can lament this as loudly as he possibly can, however, the front door opens to a very bleary-eyed Hannah.

“Oh, great,” she says as she shuts the door behind her. “This looks like a conversation I would love to be a part of.”

“Good Christ, what level of Hell did you just crawl out of?” Lucifer asks.

“Tech rehearsals,” Hannah tosses her keys into the bowl beside the door. “That is all I’m going to say about that.”

“Shouldn’t the other one be with you?” asks Michael.

Castiel doesn’t miss the long, tired _ughhh_ that comes out of his sister’s throat.

“Well, that answers that,” Michael gives Lucifer a look that makes Lucifer hide his face in Noah’s soft baby hair.

“You look tired,” Castiel interjects. “Maybe you should get some rest.”

“Castiel is trying to decide how to tell Sam that he’s got the hots for his brother,” says Lucifer. “You know, Dean?”

Hannah finally proves her grudging relationship to Gabriel in a fantastic display. She drops to her knees right there in the foyer and flops forward, face-first into the carpet.

“Ow,” she mutters.

“How’re the ol’ kneecaps there, kid?” Lucifer asks.

“I do not wish to discuss it,” Hannah says.

“Hey!” Michael shouts. “Get back down here.”

As the scene played out before him, Castiel (foolishly) thought he could make an undetected escape through the kitchen.

“Yeah, don’t you want two asexuals and an old married broad telling you what to do with your love life?”

“I’m not old,” Michael snips as Hannah continues to groan into the floor.

“What,” Castiel folds his arms over his chest. “What could you possibly have to say?”

“Stop pussyfooting around it and just break that shit off,” Lucifer insists. “You’re building it into way more than it needs to be.”

“I actually agree with Lucifer,” says Hannah. She finally looks up, and with a grimace on her face concludes, “I feel so dirty.”

“And what say you?” Lucifer asks Michael.

“Exactly what you said,” Michael says. “And I think you _know_ that’s what you have to do, Castiel. You just insist on making things difficult for yourself, so you mull things over with two rats who can’t tell you that you’re being--and I don’t mean for this to sound as misogynistic as it does--a little bitch.”

“Hey,” Castiel frowns. “I’m not.”

“If the little bitch shoe fits,” Lucifer shrugs.

“Please tell him,” Hannah pleads. “I’m so fucking tired of talking about the Winchesters.”

“Ditto,” Lucifer agrees, then turns Noah around in his arms. He takes Noah’s hands and gestures over a squeaky baby voice, “Do the right thing, Uncle Castie-smell.”

Over the outburst of Michael and Lucifer’s laughter, Castiel and Hannah share silent, unmistakable looks of _‘why me?’_

**oo**

Castiel’s body hums with anticipation. There was no sign of Sam before school started, which had Castiel shrugging and giving a less than half-hearted, _“Oh well, I’ll talk to him later.”_

Hannah had nearly punched him in the face, telling him that if he dragged this out any longer, _“I will be dragging you to the cemetery in a body bag.”_

Hell hath no fury like Hannah Novak when she’s one hundred percent done with your shit.

Luckily (maybe), AP physics brings Sam Winchester to his place beside Castiel. He looks like he’s been up all night, and knowing Sam, he probably has been.

“You look like shit,” Castiel greets.

Oh, boy.

Sam looks over at him, a wry smile on his lips but this intense look of something not-right in his eyes.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says.

“What I mean is that,” Castiel shifts. “Are you okay?”

Sam shifts again, bringing a hand up to rub his neck before he says, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just stressed about next week.”

Castiel nods in silent understanding. He opens his mouth to suggest a study session this weekend, but then he remembers the conversation they’re inevitably going to have and it suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

“You okay?” Sam asks back.

“No, yeah,” Castiel shakes his head, “Just…”

He’s going to have a panic attack, isn’t he?

“All right, class, let’s get started,” says Mr. Devereaux. Whatever he says after, Castiel can’t hear. Forget rushing, the blood in his head crashes against his eardrums in some macabre ocean scene. He almost swallows his tongue when a sheet of paper slides across the desk and in Sam’s tidy print reads, _‘Are you sure you’re okay?’_

Castiel tries not to shake as he writes back, _‘Can we talk after class?’_

He doesn’t miss the way Sam tenses beside him, or that small intake of breath Sam makes before he replies _‘Sure’_.

“All stuff off of your desks, boys,” says Mr. Devereaux as he comes to Sam’s and Castiel’s table, a stack of papers in his arms. “Mock exam starts as soon as everyone’s got a copy.”

Crisp, thick packets slap face down against the desk, once in front of Sam and once in front of Castiel.

“Oh, fuck,” Castiel mutters.

“Is there a problem, Castiel?” Mr. Devereaux asks, now passing out tests to the students at the desk beside Castiel’s and Sam’s.

“No, sir,” Castiel says, though the way his pencil snaps in half as he taps it against the desk might suggest otherwise.

It’s the longest test Castiel has ever taken. He’s one of the last to finish and has one of the lowest scores when they correct it at the end of class.

Needless to say, Sam pulls him aside as soon as they step outside of the classroom.

“Dude, you’re freaking me out,” he says.

What tumbles out of Castiel’s mouth is one long word that makes Sam’s face scrunch.

“Huh?”

Shit.

Castiel takes a breath, his jaw quaking as he puts the words back together in his brain. A good long breath in, one out, and Castiel is ready to repeat, “We can’t fool around anymore.”

Why Castiel was expecting an Academy Award-worthy display of outrage, he can’t say. Sam’s response is very Sam: his eyebrows go up and he just says, “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel sighs and looks down at his feet. “Sam, you’re a wonderful person and a great friend, and I hope after what I’m about to say we can still _be_ friends.”

He swallows back the remainder of his nerves and looks back up to say, “I’ve developed very significant feelings for… for Dean.”

“Dean… who?” Sam asks.

“Your Dean,” says Castiel, and Sam’s eyebrows fly up even higher.

“Dean Winchester?” he asks.

Castiel nods.

“Okay,” Sam says as the gears work in his head. “That’s interesting. Not that I’m not all for it!” he reassures, “I mean, you feeling however you want about whoever you want and all. It’s just--you know Dean’s not into guys, right? At least, not as far as I--”

“We’ve kissed,” Castiel interrupts, then clears his throat. “A couple of times. And I know his feelings for me are significant enough that we--I, actually. I can’t speak for him. My feelings are as such that I would like to pursue them, and I think Dean feels the same way.”

After a good long stretch of silence, Sam runs his fingers through his hair and declares, “Well, shit.”

“Yeah,” Castiel agrees.

Another stretch of silence and Sam’s arms come up. Is this a fight? Oh god, it’s a fight. Not that Castiel couldn’t hold his own in a fight, it’s just that Sam is a lot taller than him and--

It’s a hug.

“Oh… okay,” Castiel frowns.

“This is the part where you hug back,” Sam issues a gentle reminder.

Castiel still frowns, but wraps his arms around Sam anyway.

“You’re taking this remarkably well,” he says when they pull away.

This time it’s Sam who looks at the floor with a, “Yeah… um. I guess since we’re being honest.”

Oh, boy.

“It’s weird, but,” Sam looks back up. “Gabriel and I have kind of had our own thing.”

He may as well have pulled a cord and dumped a ton of bricks right onto Castiel’s head.

“ _My_ brother?”  he asks.

“I know,” Sam chuckles, “Kinda bizarre, huh?”

“Yeah,” Castiel nods, his eyes unable to blink. “Yeah, that’s crazy.”

“I actually kinda might, y’know,” Sam shrugs. “Love him? Not that he knows or anything, but. Like you said, pretty significant feelings.”

Castiel nods again. Sam’s entire face is flushed, almost as though he’s been just as nervous about this as Castiel. Underlying, though, there’s this glow. This glow that tells Castiel that whatever Sam feels for Gabriel is one hundred percent genuine. It’s when Castiel smiles at this that he realizes this rush of rage in his gut isn’t about Sam.

“I’m happy for you, Sam,” Castiel says, and it’s true.

“Yeah?” Sam asks.

“Of course,” Castiel smiles, “You’re my friend still, aren’t you?”

Sam’s grin broadens and he pulls Castiel back into another enormous hug. Castiel hugs back, this time his grip tightening under the bubbling pressure of red and white hot in his belly. He lets go before he chokes Sam, because this fury tempest isn’t about him, isn’t for him.

It’s for Gabriel.

 

* * *

 

Warm.

Not just warm, but the most profound sense of warm anybody has ever felt. That’s what this is.

That’s what it is to wake up wrapped in Sam Winchester’s blankets, curled against Sam Winchester’s chest, safe and sound in Sam Winchester’s bed.

Gabriel’s eyelids flip up like retractable window shades and he sits bolt upright. It’s dark, his t-shirt is stuck to his body, and every muscle below his neck screams with overexertion.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” he mouths, careful not to wake Sam where he still sleeps. Not only does everything hurt, he’s in Sam’s bed in the middle of the fucking night, undoubtedly with a plethora of messages from mom on his phone, and no desire to leave the warmth of the guy beside him.

All of a sudden there’s a jolt of something in his chest, then the deep, profound feeling of his heart being pushed and pulled like it’s in a damn taffy machine. It’s the same feeling he had earlier, right after he shot his load, in those few moments that Sam held him and kissed him while he came back down to earth. There hadn’t been any words in his brain then and there aren’t too many up there now. There’s just… fluff.

And warm.

There’s fullness in his chest and slimy little worms in his stomach. His body decides that it simultaneously needs to vomit and poop and sweat. If someone twisted him right now, he’d ring out like a rag. You could hang him up to dry, leave him to bake in the sun for days and it wouldn’t make even a little bit of a difference to him.

He would be okay.

Shit.

Gabriel looks out the window. The sky is still dark, at least. Maybe he can get home and not incur too much of mom’s wrath. Carefully, he peels back the blankets, but of course it turns out that Sam is on the outside of the bed and Gabriel is the one sandwiched between Sam ‘King Dong’ Winchester.

And in his sleep-addled state, Gabriel still thinks it’s a good idea to try to crawl over Sam, because _he can totally do this without waking him up, right_? He has to do it. It has to work because he has to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible.

“... Gabe?”

Gabriel looks down and sees Sam trapped under all four of his limbs, staring blearily up at him.

“Hey, buddy,” Gabriel whispers. “How’s it hangin’?”

Sam looks down between Gabriel’s legs, then back at his face and guesses, “Pendulously? You’re wearing undies, so I can’t really tell.”

Gabriel too looks down and back up, then concedes, “Touche.”

Sam grins and stretches, then rests his hands on Gabriel’s hips.

That’s weird.

Why is Sam looking at him like this.

“Where’re you going?” Sam asks.

“Uh,” Gabriel replies ever so eloquently, “Home, I was thinking.”

“Are you kidding?” Sam frowns and starts patting around for his phone. “It’s gotta be… it’s two in the morning.”

“Really?” Gabriel asks. “Shit, it’s still early.”

Sam snorts, “You’re so weird.”

“How dare you,” Gabriel sits down right on Sam’s thighs. “I’m a goddamn delight.”

“Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive,” Sam grins, then gets caught in a yawn, “Jesus, come back to sleep. You’re warm.”

“So are blankets,” Gabriel points out. “The fuck do you need me for?”

Sam hums, pretends to think, and grins around his reply, “My blankets aren’t as cute as you.”

“Oh, my god,” Gabriel laughs.

“What?”

“You cheesy motherfucker,” Gabriel leans down and kisses Sam’s forehead.

Wait, why did he do that? He didn’t even think about it. It was some knee-jerk reaction but it came out… kind of sweet.

“I’m not that cheesy,” Sam argues back, but that sappy smile is still on his face and it makes Gabriel’s whole vomit-poop-sweat thing start up again. He’s just _staring_.

“What?” he asks.

Sam shrugs, but doesn’t stop smiling.

“Shit,” Gabriel sighs. “I really gotta go, Sam. My mom’s gonna go ballistic when she sees me.”

“Won’t she flip either way?” Sam asks. “Like, whether you come home now or tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but the longer she sits on it, the more rage she accrues,” Gabriel finally slides the rest of the way off the bed. “Christ, she’s like a fuckin’ bank, but for anger.”

Sam snorts and sits up as Gabriel fruitlessly tries to find his pants in the dimmest of light coming from the street lamp under the window.

“You know what this looks like, right?” he asks.

“An incredibly handsome genius looking for his pants?” Gabriel guesses.

“Like you’re bailing, Gabe,” Sam says, and Gabriel stops.

“Bailing?” he repeats. “Sammy, there’s nothing to bail on. I fell asleep in your bed, which means I broke my curfew for the umpteenth time this month. Ever broken a Jewish mother’s curfew?”

“Can’t say I have,” Sam shakes his head. He rests his chin on his knees, and though layered in shadows he seems… sad.

“What’s with the long face?” Gabriel asks. “You look like you didn’t just boink your brains out.”

“I just kinda,” Sam shrugs again, “thought you’d stay, I guess.”

The word ‘why’ dies in his throat when Gabriel realizes that Sam’s making those damn puppy dog eyes. Would Sam really be that bummed if he wasn’t there? His shoulders sag and his muscles unclench. He doesn’t want Sam to be sad.

“All right,” he says. “Scoot over then.”

“Dude, don’t stay if you don’t want to,” Sam rolls his eyes.

“Hmm,” Gabriel taps his chin. “Stay here with a dismally attractive young man and possibly get a pre-homeroom blowie in his truck, or go home to a mother who is going to chew me a new asshole the second she sees me. I don’t know about you, but even I draw the line at two assholes.”

The relief in Sam’s laugh does not fall on deaf ears.

As they scoot back together underneath the covers, Gabriel can’t help but feel as out of place as he does. This isn’t his bed, it’s not his room, and Sam is holding him and kissing his cheeks and his neck like he’s something precious, when really he’s just a person.

A person who just might believe Sam Winchester when he says, “You’re awesome."

**oo**

Gabriel spends the entirety of his morning completely engrossed in the memory of Sam’s mouth. Sam’s a quick learner and a diligent student in school, so it’s hardly a surprise that being a student of sucking dick is any different for him.

Only, it’s not the phantom of this morning’s gorgeous blowjob that’s pole dancing around Gabriel’s head, no. It’s the way Sam licked his lips after; it’s the way that Sam sighed when Gabriel went to reciprocate. It’s the way that, after Gabriel had finished, Sam had kissed him--soft and warm and fucking surreal.

Sam probably could have fallen back asleep in the wake of their parking lot tryst, but the first period bell rang and the both of them took off at lightning speed toward their respective morning classes.

Now Gabriel sits under one of the spring green trees out behind the school, halfway into a little pinner joint while he looks over his script for _Midsummer_. Looks over, yes, but reads or comprehends? Not so much. All thoughts lead back to Sam.

“You’re smoking weed on school grounds?”

Without looking up from his script, Gabriel takes a drag off of his joint and holds it until no smoke escapes on his exhale. He says, “We now go live to channel seven’s own Morality Watchdog, Hannah Novak. Hannah, what can you tell us about the vicious onslaught of rule-breaking?”

“Eat a dick,” Hannah shoots back. “Preferably your own.”

Gabriel snorts and looks up. Hannah leans against the chainlink fence beside the tree, arms folded and eyes glacial.

“Why sister,” Gabriel frowns, “Is there something on your mind?”

“First of all, I’ve asked you not to call me ‘sister’, as I am neither ignorant to our relationship nor a middle-aged nun,” Hannah begins. “Second, I’m about ninety percent sure that your Winchester just ratted you out to Castiel.”

Gabriel chokes on the smoke in his lungs. He extinguishes what’s left of his joint and slips it back in his pocket, then asks, “How do you know?”

“Sam told me he did,” says Hannah.

Gabriel all but leaps to his feet.

“You--How are you not a hundred percent sure, then!?” he shouts, and Hannah shrugs.

“In the spirit of statistics, I automatically knock off one percent of certainty when someone tells me they’ve done something,” she says. “Then I deduct further percentages based on a complex rubric of trust that I’ve constructed--”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Gabriel asks. “I swear to god, between you and your stunt double--”

“For example,” Hannah talks over him. “If you had come to me and said what Sam had said, I would be about thirty-five percent sure you were telling the truth.”

“What th--” Gabriel frowns. “Thirty-five? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Conversely, if you told me that you won a Moroccan bar in a drinking contest in a similar tone of voice, I would be roughly eighty-six  percent sure you were being truthful.”

Gabriel’s forehead cramps under the deep furrow of his brow.

“This is what you’ve taught me,” Hannah says, “And anyone with a brain in their head, I might add.”

“Oh, my god, will you talk like a normal fucking person for a change!” Gabriel yells.

So, Hannah yells back, “You _cannot_ be surprised that people don’t believe you when you spend so much of your time being dishonest, Gabriel!”

“Excuse you, I speak my mind at all times,” Gabriel scowls.

“False,” Hannah snaps. “You speak your mind when it works to your advantage. That’s how you are, that’s how you’ve _always_ been. And the only reason it hasn’t fucked you over as much as it should have is because you are actually a decent human being deep, deep, _deep_ down.”

Gabriel opens his mouth, but no words come out. That joint was by no means a knockout, but still. He can’t be hearing that right… right?

“Subterranean,” Hannah says. “Down past everything to your molten inner core, you are good, Gabriel.”

Gabriel lets out a deep breath and leans back against the tree trunk.

“You love Castiel,” Hannah folds her arms over her chest. “Just like you love the rest of us. And, at the risk of causing a system overload, I think you love Sam too.”

Gabriel’s face scrunches as he adamantly shakes his head ‘no’.

“Gabriel…”

“I don’t!” Gabriel exclaims. “Not like that. I don’t--all the hearts and flowers and star-crossed lovers shit? That’s fucking weird, man.”

“Wait, what?” Hannah asks, now taking full advantage of her turn to be confused.

“I’m not sitting here, like, revering Sam Winchester, all right?” Gabriel pointedly avoids making eye contact. “And he better fucking not be doing the same about me. Anyone who puts me on a pedestal--”

“Trust me, no one has ever put you on a pedestal,” Hannah interjects.

“Well, good,” Gabriel grabs his joint and lights it again. “‘cause I don’t like heights.”

“Look,” Hannah sighs. “I get it, okay? Ooey-gooey romance crap weirds me out too. I don’t get it.”

“Right?” Gabriel nods. “Fucking finally, someone with their fuckin’ head on straight.”

“But that doesn’t mean you _can’t_ love someone,” Hannah says as Gabriel smokes the rest of his joint down to a nubby little roach. “People like me, or Lucifer? We like being on our own. We don’t have the same kind of need for companionship as you.”

“I _don’t_ need companionship,” Gabriel argues.

“Kindly stop slinging your bullshit for a minute and listen,” Hannah holds up a hand. “It’s not a defect, it’s not a weakness. You may not like holding hands, or taking long walks on the nonexistent sandy beaches of Sioux Falls--”

“--Vomit and/or barf--”

“--but the way you talk about Sam. The way you are around him? Gabriel, you can’t tell me that’s not love.”

Gabriel’s reaction doesn’t come out as words, but a long, loud soul-tearing growl. He wants to stomp his feet and kick over a trash can, or better yet, fall to the floor and kick and scream until the feelings go away.

Until Hannah ceases to be annoyingly right about everything.

“... am I speaking with Jekyll or Hyde?” she asks.

“You’re speaking with the Grand High Wizard of Not Giving a Shit,” Gabriel mutters.

“Lie,” Hannah shakes her head.

“I know!” Gabriel exclaims. “Christ, I know. I can’t help it. I’m a compulsive liar.”

The bell for third period rings and Hannah sighs, “I don’t have time to ride that Philosophy 101 nonsense to its unsatisfying conclusion. You know I’m right, do with it what you will.”

Hannah grabs her bag from her feet and slings it over her shoulder. She makes it halfway to the building before she turns and says, “And apologize to Castiel, or I’ll rip your balls off.”

The door to the building slams shut and Gabriel is left standing against the tree, heart racing and stomach in knots. If this is love, then why does anyone fucking bother?

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, not completing a full REM cycle for nearly a week proved to be a disadvantage. While inspecting the underbelly of a Honda civic, Dean’s eyelids slipped shut and before he knew it he had Uncle Bobby dragging him out by his ankle and telling him to go home and not come back until he could tell his ass from a hole in the ground.

Whatever that means.

It was absolutely the right call, as Dean flops down in his bed at noon on Monday and doesn’t truly rejoin the living for about twenty-four hours. He knows he’s had moments of wakefulness, that Charlie made him eat something last night and that he’s gotten up to pee at least half a dozen times, but it’s not until mid-morning on Tuesday that his body concedes and lets him start to think again.

He fixes himself an actual meal, eggs and bacon and toast and coffee, and even sits at the table like he’s an actual person and not just some pixelated entity gobbling up pellets and running away from ghosts.

When he’s finished eating, he sits down and finds a Pac Man game on his laptop, flips on the TV and just breathes for a few minutes. Finally things start falling into place, with dad and Kate and Adam, with Sam, and even with Cas. It’s like that show Charlie loves, the IT Crowd: have you tried turning it off and on again? It works for computers--who knew it would work on people?

Considering the apparent abundance of articles about hugs and shit on the internet, everyone probably knows that.

His phone buzzes, and in a wonderful instance of serendipity, it’s Castiel asking if he can come over after he’s done with work.

_‘Im at home actually. You can come over whenever. Everything ok?’_

_‘Not really. Can I come over now?’_

_‘Yeah of course. See you soon.’_

It’s another hour before he has to buzz Cas into the building, and when he finally opens the door he’s hit by fresh gale winds of pure rage.

“Whoa, hey Cas,” Dean steps aside, though this hurricane would rip through him either way. Cas nearly throws his bag against the wall as he comes inside. Cautiously, Dean follows him to the kitchen, where Cas opens the fridge and grabs a can of Natural Ice.

“Oh, sorry,” Dean says. “I haven’t gone to the store ye--” The thought dies on his lips as Castiel cracks the can open and drains the whole thing in record time.

“Well, you’re just gonna fit right into the college scene, aren’t you,” Dean folds his arms.

Castiel pulls a face as he sets the empty can on the counter and swipes at his lips. He asks, “Why do you have that?”

“It’s the emergency stash,” Dean says. “When we don’t have anything else, that’s basically my cue to go grocery shopping.”

“Right,” Cas nods and swipes over his whole face. He takes a breath, lets it out, and looks right at Dean. “I told Sam about me and you.”

Oh, shit. Dean’s eyebrows fly up and his arms cross over his chest, bunching up his Metallica shirt, as he asks, “How’d he take it?”

“Way better than I expected,” says Cas, and Dean wilts with relief. Only, Cas’ rage is still there, and as though answering Dean’s unasked question, he continues, “Why, you might ask? Because, as fate would have it, he’s actually been sleeping with _my_ brother.”

At Dean’s lack of response, he clarifies, “Gabriel.”

“Shit, the short one?” Dean asks.

“That’s your response?” Cas counters.

“I mean, apart from the fact that it’s gotta be like watching a giraffe trying to bang a hyena,” Dean shrugs.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas warns and grabs another can out of the fridge--this time, it’s one of Charlie’s ginger ales.  

“I’m having a hard time seeing a downside!” Dean exclaims. “It’s not like you and I weren’t being sneaky.”

“It’s not that,” Cas says, then sips back the ginger ale. No follow-up comes, just the sounds of Cas slurping back fizzy ginger water.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want,” Dean says. “In fact, that’s probably a good idea for you.”

“Good,” Cas nods and takes long strides over to the couch. “I have no intention of going home. Quite possibly for the rest of my life.”

Dean sits down beside him and watches him, waiting for him to keep going. It’s probably not going to happen, though. Dean remembers what it’s like to be eighteen and pissed off. In fact, it wasn’t that long ago that he was in the same boat.

“It’s no more Sam’s fault than it is yours or mine,” Dean says, “Or even Gabriel’s--”

“I’m not mad about the sex,” Cas replies curtly. “There’s no reason to be mad about sex between two consenting parties.”

He sets down his ginger ale and turns on the couch, so he and Dean are facing each other. Another deep breath and Cas grabs Dean’s hands in his. He threads their fingers together, scoots in so close that their knees are touching.

“What’s up?” Dean asks, stomach bubbling at the sudden intimacy.

“I don’t really want to talk about it anymore,” Cas says and rests his forehead against Dean’s. _Shit_ , boner, now is not the time.

“Just wanna let it steep?” Dean tries to lighten the mood.

Cas replies by pushing their lips together. Cheap beer and store-brand ginger ale isn’t exactly the most potent aphrodisiac, but god help him, Dean kisses back. Dean likes kissing Cas, obviously, even if the circumstances are sort of strange.

… damn it.

“Cas,” Dean pulls back.

“What?” Cas tries to push him back onto the cushions, but Dean grabs his hands and holds him steady.

“You’re upset, okay?” Dean tries to reason. “And you’ve been drinking.”

“One crappy beer,” Castiel reminds him. “And as I am neither thirteen nor at my first boy-girl party, I am not inebriated.”

“No, I know,” Dean sighs. “I just… can we hold off on the heavy stuff?”

Cas looks at him with those big mooney eyes, hurt but compliant as he mutters, “Of course.”

Dean sighs again, “Not to get too daytime soap opera or anything, it’s just new for me, y’know? Gotta go slow.”

“Right,” Cas nods. “I keep forgetting you’ve never been with another guy before.”

“Well, I’ve never really had a thing I didn’t wanna screw up,” Dean shrugs. “Not that I wanted to screw up things in the past, but I’d really, really, _really_ rather not screw this up with you.”

Cas blinks, and after a few moments says, “That must have been difficult for you.”

Dean frowns.

“I know being the sensible one isn’t your forte--” Cas lets out a laugh when Dean socks him on the shoulder.

“Never call me sensible again,” Dean warns through his own smile.

Somehow that leads to another kiss. A lot of weird stuff leads to kissing Cas, Dean has found. That kiss leads to more smiles, which lead to more kisses. Soon, they’re full-on making out and Dean no longer has an extra wit about him to think better of it.

Dean might get whiplash if this afternoon shifts course again.

Cas’ hands roam, so do Dean’s. Cas’ dick is starting to get hard, Dean’s has been doing the same for a good long while. Cas bites what’s sure to be a nice bright purple hickey into Dean’s neck, and all Dean can do is grind up not-so-subtly against Cas’ thigh.

Then Cas laughs, “Dry humping my thigh won’t screw things up?”

“Ha-ha,” Dean mocks back. “You’re hilarious.”

“Would a handjob screw things up?”

Dean stops and looks at Cas, who stares right back. He’s a lot closer to Dean’s face than he thought, and even more, he’s a lot more present than Dean expected.

Hell, he may even be more present than Dean.

“I mean,” Dean clears his throat. “If you’re offering, it’d be… y’know, rude to say ‘no’, or whatever.”

“You can say whatever you want,” Cas’ fingers stroke through his hair. “Handjob, blowjob… I’d even fuck you if you wanted.”

Dean thinks that weird noise he just heard may have come out of him.

“Or we can just kiss and hump each other like the aforementioned thirteen year olds that we are not,” Cas continues, “Or we can do nothing at all. Whatever you want, Dean. I don’t want to screw this up either.”

That last part is so soft that Dean knows it was just meant to be heard by him. Nobody is there with them, granted, but Cas says it like it’s something precious, to be kept from the entire universe.

Of course, all this and Dean just says, “Handjobs are good.”

 _Yeah,_ they are.

As soon as Cas gives the green light, it’s friggin’ open season. Cas has a handful of dick in the blink of an eye, and for the first time Dean’s got a dude’s hand on him. Whatever part of the situation with Sam and Gabriel that pisses Cas off has disappeared for the time being. All of his energy seems to drain into this, into kissing Dean and stroking his cock like it’s this life-affirming experience.

“That feels nice,” Dean sighs as Cas’ wrist twists in just the right way.

“Good,” Cas pecks him on the end of his nose. “I have a very particular set of skills which I’ve acquired over a very long career.”

“Wow,” Dean laughs. “If you could keep the Liam Neeson quotes to a minimum when I’m about to shoot my load, that’d be awesome.”

“You’re close already?” Cas grins.

“Uh, you’re sexy and you have nice hands,” Dean halfheartedly defends himself.

“No judgements,” Cas loops an arm around his shoulders and kisses him nice and deep, his hand moving all the while. Dean’s toes curl into the carpet as Cas whispers, “You can come whenever and wherever you like, Dean.”

And with those words, ‘now’ and ‘here’ appear to be the answers to those. Dean white-knuckles Cas’ shirt as he comes all over Cas’ hand and god knows what else. Cas kisses him through it, and when they’ve calmed down he grabs a paper towel from the kitchen and cleans them both up.

When Cas moves to get up again, Dean holds him back.

“Lemme do you,” he says, reaching for Cas’ fly, but Cas grabs his wrist and shakes his head.

“Another time,” he smiles, and kisses Dean again. He tosses the paper towel and comes back to the couch, this time to cuddle up next to Dean and burrow under his arm.

“Hey,” Dean grins.

“Hello,” Cas greets back. “What’s on TV today?”

With the world of crappy daytime TV at their disposal, Dean and Castiel settle for a quiet afternoon alone.  

 


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel isn’t a morning person. Or, maybe after suffering through years of early morning swim meets, Castiel’s body is just basking in the fact that it doesn’t have to be awake and in ice cold water before the sun is even up. Instead he gets to be warm, nestled under a pile of blankets, cradled by memory foam and, occasionally, by Dean Winchester. 

This is not one of those mornings. 

This morning finds Castiel wide awake at the ripe hour of six o’clock, staring at the pinpoints of hazy gray morning light that pierce through the comic book onomatopoeia curtains that hang over Dean’s bedroom window. 

He hasn’t slept at home for the last few nights. Hannah’s been lying for him, thank god, telling mom he’s studying for APs at the library. Castiel knows he can’t avoid Gabriel forever, but damn it, he can try for right now. Dean and Charlie have been amazing, opening their home up and welcoming him with little to no interrogation regarding his motives, his feelings, or his game plan for the immediate future. 

Charlie had put her foot down about the hamsters, though, which in hindsight Castiel understands. She and Dean have no room for tiny mammals running through the veritable gauntlet of action figures and collectibles they have on display. So, Castiel has gone home right after school every day to feed them, tell them that he’s okay, and that their auntie will keep them company until such a time that he feels he can come home. 

Of course, Lucifer walked in right when Castiel had referred to Hannah as the hamsters’ auntie and, look, he knows he’s weird, okay? He doesn’t need the reminder. 

The sheets rustle beside him, followed by, “Hey, you’re up before me.” 

Castiel looks from the curtains down to Dean. He’s in the exact same position he was just moments ago when he was fast asleep, the only difference now being that Castiel can just see little slits of green eyes half obstructed by his pillow. 

“Good morning,” Castiel greets. 

“You okay?” Dean shifts so that his whole face is visible. 

The face that launched a thousand ships. 

“Cas?” 

Castiel blinks back into the moment. He’s supposed to respond, isn’t he? 

“I’m fine,” he says. Almost lies, but not quite, because he is fine right now. He’s with Dean and Dean has a habit of making Castiel feel fine. 

… okay, he makes Castiel feel way more than fine, but right now there’s a lot on his mind. 

“You watchin’ me sleep?” Dean stretches his arms above his head and arches his back. 

Gorgeous. 

“All right, I’m gonna get up and make some coffee,” Dean yawns and tosses back the blankets. Castiel sighs. He needs to say something, doesn’t he?

“Dude, it’s cool,” Dean turns to him and gives him a kiss on the cheek--tentative, like he’s still not sure whether it’s allowed. “You need your java before you become human, I get it.” 

Castiel leans forward and kisses him full on the lips. 

Dean blinks as they pull apart, then huffs a laugh over Castiel’s lips. “Or that,” he says. “We can definitely do that.” 

Castiel shifts so he’s on top of Dean. He strokes his fingers through his light brown hair, watches the way Dean’s face changes the longer they lie here together. His cheeks start to turn a little pink, his lips part and his eyes don’t leave Castiel’s. Even when Castiel rolls his hips into Dean’s, they’re still locked in incredibly close eye contact. Dean is usually hard when he wakes up, Castiel has learned. Castiel usually is too, but he’s already been awake for so long that he’d gone soft long ago. 

Dean will fix that, though. 

The last few nights were filled with exploration, with roaming hands and sweet words, and coming so hard that neither couldn’t help the noises he made. Charlie is either the lowest maintenance, most easygoing person on the planet, or she has massive surround sound headphones. 

“God, Cas,” Dean sighs. 

“I’m starting to think we need to work on building your stamina, old man.” 

“I’m barely twenty-two, you dick,” Dean bites back only seconds before Castiel reaches between them and slides both of their erections out of their pajama pants. Anything else Dean has to say gets lost in a groan as Castiel wraps his hand around the both of them and teases a slow stroke upward. 

Distracting Dean Winchester is almost too easy. 

It’s quick. Even if they had time to kill, it would probably be quick. Castiel doesn’t want to pressure Dean into anything he’s not ready for, and Dean has already made it abundantly clear that he needs to take this slowly. Castiel is all right with that. He’s all right with Dean’s hair trigger when it comes to having another guy’s hand on him. After all, Castiel remembers the first time he touched another guy. It’s still taboo enough, still far enough out of the realm of “normal” around here, that the first few times there’s a hard dick anywhere near you, you can’t really control yourself. 

Castiel holds Dean through it and a few moments later he follows, and they’re left panting against one another with come striping up their hands and shirts. It’s only now as they’re coming down that Castiel says, “I don’t want to go to school today.” 

Dean’s grin melts too easily into a laugh.

“Neither would I, after that,” he says. “At least I’m trapped under cars most of my day. No one’s gonna see me pop a tent in my coveralls. Don’t have to worry about doing math problems at the whiteboard with a big ol’ rod in my pants.” 

“If that were the case, I’d probably be a little more inclined to pay attention in calculus,” Castiel replies and sits back on Dean’s thighs. Neither has made any sort of effort to get cleaned up; neither has even expelled the effort to put his dick away yet. 

“Well, you can stay here if you want,” Dean yawns. “I gotta go into work. I told silver hatchback that her car would be ready today.” 

“Silver hatchback,” Castiel repeats. 

“I don’t remember her name,” Dean shrugs and pats Castiel’s legs. “C’mon, up and at ‘em.” 

In an epic display of maturity, Castiel whines and flops down onto the other side of the bed. 

“Fine, be a baby,” Dean leans over and kisses him just below his earlobe. “I’m gonna shower. You should probably come with me.” 

Castiel looks back up at him. 

“Yes,” he says, “yes, I should definitely do that.”

The shower unknots the tension in Castiel’s shoulders and steam clears out the remainder of the gunk in his sinuses. Dean is efficient in the shower, done before Castiel has even touched a bar of soap, but tells Castiel to stay in for as long as he needs. 

Once he’s clean and dressed for the day, Castiel walks out to the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. Dean eats a bowl of cereal in front of the TV, and Castiel comes over to sit beside him. 

“I’ll go,” he says. 

“Atta boy,” Dean nods and tips the contents of his bowl back into his mouth. He chews, swallows, and it’s one of the single-most unattractive things Castiel has ever seen another person do, but, because it’s Dean, it puts a smile on his face. Dean then proceeds to hound Castiel until he eats something with his coffee, because  _ “you can’t go to school on an empty stomach, Cas, come on” _ , and then offers to drive him to school. 

“So,” Dean says after five minutes in the car, “Sam’s birthday’s tomorrow.” 

Oh,  _ man _ . Castiel knew he was forgetting something. 

“That’s right,” he replies, hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s planning his afternoon around getting to the mall and finding a gift fit for a dear friend. 

“He doesn’t like to do much for his  birthday anyway,” Dean continues, “But I’m not gonna let him sit at home by himself, wasting his eighteenth birthday on studying when there’s other shit to do.” 

“What did you have in mind?” he asks. 

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs. “Titty bar and cigarettes? We’d need something to do during the day, though.”

“Well, something tells me you might have to adjust your nighttime plans as well,” says Castiel. “Sam may not have much interest in, as you say, ‘titty bars’, and I’m pretty sure you need to be twenty-one for that kind of thing.” 

“… Damn it,” Dean sighs. 

“It’s okay,” Castiel pats him on the knee. “We can always take him to a 7-11 and watch him buy a Playboy. That’d probably be more fun for us than for him, though.” 

They roll to a stop across the street from the back gate of the high school. Castiel leans over and gives Dean a kiss, seemingly their hundredth in half as many hours, and rests his forehead against his temple. He says, “I’ll think about it today, if you want.” 

Dean grins. 

“Thanks.” 

It’s a nice moment that sticks to Castiel like glue--at least, it does until he sees Sam in their physics class, head down and hood flipped up over his head. Suddenly, Castiel can’t keep the rotting chokehold of guilt that wraps around his guts. 

Sam is sad. 

And Castiel thinks that maybe he’s been sad all week, and he’s just been too self-absorbed to realize. 

He sits down in his normal seat and clears his throat. When Sam doesn’t look up, Castiel asks, “Sam?” 

Sam looks like he’s been through hell and back at least a few times. Insomnia bruises the skin around Sam’s eyes, and his hair hasn’t seen a comb in at least a couple of days. 

“Sorry,” Sam rubs his face. “I’m running on fumes, man.” 

“Is everything okay?” Castiel asks. 

Sam Winchester is most definitely not okay. Castiel doesn’t even know why he asked that; it was obvious. 

Incredibly obvious, actually. 

“What’s wrong, I guess I meant to ask,” he amends. AP exams are on the horizon, dominating the next two weeks of their lives. The other day, Hannah told him that Mr. Shurley moved the date of the play back to accommodate his overly-burdened cast and crew, so at least that was something off of Sam’s plate for the immediate time being.

All this time and Sam doesn’t look at him, though, just stares into the middle distance before them and shrugs. 

Oh, boy. 

_ Gabriel _ . 

“What did he do?” Castiel asks.

Sam does look at him this time. His face falls even further somehow, and he begins to stammer around a thought that Castiel doesn’t allow to manifest. 

“He’s my brother, Sam,” he says. “I can spot his handiwork from the space station… figuratively, of course.” 

Sam sighs and tries to pull his hood over his entire face, but, to the surprise of no one, he’s unsuccessful. Castiel waits patiently as the seconds tick by and Sam prepares himself to speak. The knot in Castiel’s stomach ties ever tighter. He might not be in sexual congress with Sam anymore, but damn it. 

He loves Sam. He loves sunshine and peanut butter with grape jelly, he loves his hamsters and his family, and, damn it, he loves Sam Winchester.

“He’s not talking to me,” Sam says softly. There’s so much weight behind the frailty of his voice. Castiel may not be a font of emotional intelligence, but he knows enough to know that this is the sound of a soul so close to breaking.

“What?” 

“Like, okay, I see him,” Sam explains, “and he’ll say stuff to me, but I don’t know… He’s acting weird.” 

The bell rings, but Castiel, apparently, doesn’t give half a damn. He stands up, Mr. Devereaux’s attempts to wrangle him in falling on deaf ears, and charges out of the classroom and toward the back stairwell. He knows this feeling--it makes him sick, but he knows it. 

He wants blood. 

Castiel tromps down the stairs and all but sprints once he hits the ground floor. Sure enough, Gabriel is right where Castiel suspects--not in class, but out behind the back building, hoodie drawn up and an actual cigarette dangling from his lips. Like Sam, he has the rings of Saturn around his eyes. 

All this, and Castiel’s mother is the only voice that comes out. 

“You smoke cigarettes now?” he demands. 

Gabriel exhales, the earthy, almost evergreen aroma of his usual smoke cloud replaced by a noxious cocktail of red hot chemicals and tobacco. “Pot ain’t a cheap habit, all right?” he says. “Cut me a little slack.” 

No. No, Castiel will not, thank you. 

“What the hell are you doing with Sam?” he demands.

Gabriel says nothing, and in fact pointedly avoids meeting Castiel’s eye. He must know that he’s being an asshole. 

“Gabriel--” 

He finds himself anticipating an interruption that never comes. It leaves an awkward hole in the air around them that neither one of them looks keen on plugging. 

“Fine, I guess I’ll continue,” Castiel says. 

“You have the floor, senator,” Gabriel gestures.

_ “No _ ,” Castiel spits this time and, on an impulse, slaps the cigarette out of Gabriel’s hand. Of course, it lands on a patch of dry grass that shoots up from the cracks in the concrete, and Castiel has to stomp it out before the whole school goes up in flames.

“Well, that was something,” Gabriel comments lightly.

And that’s it. Castiel grabs Gabriel by the front of his sweatshirt and hauls him to his feet. Gabriel’s half-hearted attempts to get free only end in frustration as Castiel pins him against the old worn brick wall. Has he always been this easy to throw around? 

“You do not get to hurt Sam Winchester,” Castiel warns. 

“And you do?” Gabriel counters. 

And perhaps it’s childish that Castiel’s first and only reaction is to backhand him right across the face, but the train has left the station. This is happening. 

“I care very deeply for Sam,” he says. “He’s one of my only friends, and just because we’re not sleeping together anymore does not in any way mean that I care any less. He’s a good person, and you can’t treat him like shit just because you’re an asshole.” 

Gabriel’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t argue. He just looks at the chainlink fence over Castiel’s shoulder. They should be on the ground right now, rolling around, punching and kicking and biting until someone breaks it up, but there’s nothing. 

“You’re not even going to defend yourself?” Castiel asks. “Or even apologize for being a borderline psychopath?” 

“Hey!” Gabriel barks, “I am  _ not  _ a psychopath. Selfish, yes. Asshole, most definitely. But I’m not a psychopath, okay? Trust me, I’m not smart enough to be a psychopath. I looked it up.” 

“You looked it up?” Castiel parrots back, only to have Gabriel shove him away. 

“Yeah, I looked it up,” Gabriel pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and places a brand new one in between his lips. Castiel, running on pure adrenaline, grabs the pack and chucks it over the fence. Gabriel balks, “Those cost seven dollars!” 

“I’ll remind you to thank me when you’re lung cancer free at age thirty,” Castiel replies. “If you know you’re being a shithead then why are you doing it? Do you really have that little regard for how you make other people feel?” 

Gabriel tries to light the cigarette in his mouth, and that’s it. Castiel can’t hold it in any longer. He hauls off and punches Gabriel right in the face. 

“Holy shit!” Gabriel doubles over just as white heat surges up Castiel’s arm. 

That hurt. 

That really, really hurt. 

Not quite as much as it hurts when Gabriel comes at Castiel and they both wind up on the ground, punching and hitting and biting and spitting obscenities, just as God intended. It’s not until Castiel’s gotten an elbow to the ribs and a knee to the gut that the back building door bursts open and they’re pulled off of one another. 

Castiel barely registers Mr. Shurley standing between them, shouting himself hoarse. All he sees is Gabriel’s heaving chest and tear-stained cheeks. It’s only another moment before Mr. Shurley realizes this too. Castiel can’t hear the words, can only see that Mr. Shurley’s demeanor has softened tenfold and--

And Gabriel surges forward and hugs Mr. Shurley so tightly that Castiel thinks the man might actually pop. 

“Gabriel?” Castiel ventures. Mr. Shurley looks to be at a loss, caught between professional and genuine concern. 

“Gabriel,” Mr. Shurley’s voice comes out oddly calm, but all Gabriel does in response is let out the most painfully soul-cleaving sob that Castiel has ever heard. He holds tight to Mr. Shurley’s shirt, shaking as he fights so hard to keep the world up there on his shoulders. 

Mr. Shurley looks at Castiel and asks, “Is there anyone we can call?” 

Castiel nods, and Mr. Shurley instructs, “Go to the office and call them, then.” 

“He’s eighteen, though,” Castiel says. “He can just leave if he wants. Or, I’m eighteen. I could take him home.” 

“Castiel,” Mr. Shurley says, still incredibly calm. “Go to the office and call, please.” 

With that, Castiel nods and, despite the sore chest and gut, hauls ass to the office to call his mom.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere along the line--he couldn’t tell you where--Gabriel had lost complete control of his life. It’s not like you end up in the nurse’s office with a wet paper towel slapped over your face when things are going great in your life, after all. 

His face hurts. Maybe it was the punch Castiel threw, or the fact that his muscles aren’t used to handing so much crying at one time. Man, when Gabriel goes for it, he really goes for it. 

As he contemplates the various wrong turns that have lead him to this moment, his eyes follow the rotating blades of the fan that hangs precariously from the white ceiling tiles. Around and around they go, completely ignorant to any and all other things. 

The door creaks open, but Gabriel doesn’t budge. With any luck, it’s Death coming for him. Eighteen years is a good run, right? How long was Cats on Broadway? … God, is he really no better than that Andrew Lloyd Webber-T.S. Eliot turd burger? 

Ugh, and why does he know enough to be offended by that comparison?

“Gabriel?” 

It’s not the nurse, it’s not a teacher or any dick administrator. It’s mom. 

“Oh, my god, what happened?” she rushes over to him and drops her purse on the bench seat between the two cots. 

“Your loinfruit decided I needed my ass beat,” Gabriel replies.

“Hannah?” mom’s voice jumps an octave. 

“The other one,” Gabriel corrects her and finally peels the paper towel off of his skin. Mom gasps, though she gasps just as deep for paper cuts and stubbed toes, so Gabriel can’t say how bad the damage really is. 

“Castiel hit you?” she asks. 

“A few times,” Gabriel shuts his eyes. “Not that I wasn’t begging for it, but--”

“Honey, no one’s ever begging to get hit in the eye,” mom says. She rifles around in her purse and procures a travel size bottle of ibuprofen. “You’d think I would have taught you boys better. No matter how tired or stressed out you are, there’s no excuse for hitting anybody out of anger.” 

She walks back over to the doorway and calls down the hallway, “Can I get some water for my son?” 

She then goes stock-still and turns back to Gabriel. 

“God help you if that’s cigarette smoke I smell on you,” she warns. 

Good lord, how was this woman even real? 

“Mrs. Milton?” 

And there’s Mr. Shurley at the door with a paper cone full of water and,  _ shit _ , that’s right. It’s bullshit central here today, and Gabriel is the fucking hub of it all. 

“Naomi,” mom corrects and takes the water from him. “Are you here to tell me why you’ve left my son unattended while he’s in this state?” 

“Oh, no,” Mr. Shurley holds up his hands. “No, I’m just his English teacher.” 

“Oh, well then you’ll excuse me,” mom tries to shut the door, but Mr. Shurley holds it open. 

“Mom, it’s okay,” Gabriel groans at the ceiling. “He’s the one that pulled me off of Cas.” 

“Wait, pulled  _ you-- _ ”

“Come on, ma,” Gabriel heaves himself into a seated position and automatically reaches out for the pills and water. Mom hands them over without a second thought. Gabriel tosses them back and swallows before he says, “Like I’m not gonna fight back.” 

Mom whacks him upside the head. 

“Uhm,” Mr. Shurley watches them with the terrified eyes of a man who doesn’t quite know what  he’s looking at. “Well, first of all, I talked to administration and diffused the situation. Nobody’s going to be expelled, both of you will still be able to walk the stage for graduation in June, but you’ll both be suspended for three days.” 

“Great,” Gabriel sighs, and mom whacks him again. “Ma! Come on, you gotta stop doing that around people. Especially people who are mandated reporters of child abuse.”

“You’re eighteen,” mom reminds him. “Old enough to know not to hit your brother.” 

And now it’s his fault again. Well, the sympathy was nice for the five minutes it lasted. 

“I don’t want you to worry,” Mr. Shurley continued. “Castiel will still be able to take his AP tests and Gabriel here will still be able to perform in the play in two weeks.” 

Just like that, Gabriel has a cognizant moment of,  _ right _ , parents like to know that crap. 

“Perform?” mom asks. “You told me you were on stage crew with Hannah.” 

“I was,” Gabriel shrugs. “Then an actor got sick and Mr. Shurley asked if I wanted the part and he’s doing me a solid with my English grade so I stepped in.” 

“Your son is incredibly talented, Naomi,” Mr. Shurley says. “You should be very proud of him.”

But mom, of course, is still stuck on, “Why wouldn’t you tell us you were performing?” 

“I don’t know,” Gabriel shrugs. “You guys were probably gonna go anyway because Hannah’s working so hard on it. What difference does it make if I’m changing scenery or saying lines?” 

“You’re an integral part of the play, Gabriel,” Mr. Shurley interjects. “People with your kind of talent don’t get to sell themselves short.” 

“Great,” Gabriel nods. “I’m good at something with absolutely no practical application. Really doing the clan proud--ow! Ma, you gotta quit hitting me, I told you!” 

“You do  _ not _ get to decide whether or not we will be proud of you, Gabriel,” she says. “You were just going to let us sit in the audience and  _ discover _ that you’re--who, exactly?” 

Gabriel sighs, “Puck.” 

“Are you shitting me!?” she cries before she can help it. “And you were just going to sit on that?” 

“I guess,” Gabriel looks down at his knees. 

“Honey, why would you think we wouldn’t want to know that?” mom asks, a hand hovering over her heart, trying to clutch at a string of pearls she doesn’t even own. 

Gabriel shrugs. Great, he’s going to start crying again, isn’t he? 

Yup. As soon as mom sits down beside him and pulls him into a hug, as soon as her perfume crawls up and sits in his nose, his eyes spring another leak and he holds onto her. 

“It’s okay,” she hums and kisses the top of his head. “You’re okay, baby.” 

It’s the first time in a long time that he actually believes her. 

**oo**

He passes out the second he gets home, and for once he feels he’s earned it. For whatever reason, somewhere along the line Gabriel had learned that sleep was more luxury than necessity, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. There was nothing noble about suffering when you didn’t have to, and, shit, since when did Gabriel give half a fuck about being noble? He was a selfish prick regardless, so he may as well be a well-rested one. 

That being said, it doesn’t make it any easier when he wakes from a dreamless nap to a reality harsher than his suspension, his undoubtedly black eye, and his secret identity of Shakespearean actor revealed. The whole reason it had even happened was because he’s been a total asshole--not just to his brother, or his parents, or the general public, but to the only person he’s ever been sick to his stomach about hurting. 

Gabriel doesn’t bother checking his reflection before he rolls off of his mattress and pads out of his room as quietly as he can manage. He’s been a zombie these last few days, and if anyone spots him, they’re going to want to talk to him about it, and if he loses focus of his objective right now he’ll never get it back. 

This is time-sensitive. 

He whips open the front door and--shit. Of course one of the Blunder Twins took the wagon.  _ Fuck,  _ he slaps his palm against the doorjamb. Short of asking his parents to borrow one of their cars, or snagging Lucifer’s key, he really only has one option. He shuts the front door and heads to the garage. 

In Lucifer’s BP (Before Prius) days, he had gotten around almost entirely by bicycle. Though he hardly uses it for transportation anymore, he keeps it for the occasional summer day ride or alternate transportation method, just because. 

Gabriel hasn’t ridden a bike since he was fourteen. He didn’t have to once he started making friends who could drive, and it wasn’t particularly relaxing for him, so what was the point? Desperate times, though. 

Without a helmet or, really, proper depth perception, as the skin around his eye is way more swollen than he’d initially thought, Gabriel zips off down the street. Time-sensitive, he reminds himself. Not so much on Sam’s part, but Gabriel’s. If he doesn’t get this out, if he doesn’t explain to Sam while he still has it in his mind, everything will fester and get all nasty and infected and Gabriel isn’t going to let that happen. 

He’s not going to let himself hurt Sam anymore, if he can help it. 

Gabriel’s never ridden a bike at night--he kind of doesn’t mind it. He likes the solitary quietude of nighttime, and the chilled spring wind on his face wakes him up like a million Red Bulls all at once. 

He coasts to a stop in front of Sam’s house and walks it all the way up to the porch. His insides burn hot but every inch of his exposed skin is numb. He’s even shaking, for god’s sake. 

But he’s here. There’s no turning back now. 

He knocks on the door and waits. 

When Sam opens the door, it’s hard not to ask what the hell happened to him. He looks as miserable as Gabriel feels, and yet still manages to appeal to every single one of Gabriel’s sensibilities. There’s no use waiting for Sam to say something, to ask the question that would be on the tip of Gabriel’s tongue if the situation was reversed. 

He explains, “So, it’s come to my attention that I’ve been something of a shithead these last few days.” 

In accordance with what could only be termed The Understatement of the Century, Sam scoffs and asks, “Only something of one?” 

“Fine, full on shithead,” Gabriel amends. “I forgot about the subatomic shithead particles that all stuck together to make me, Supreme Shithead of All. Excuse the fuck outta me.” 

“Okay yeah, I’m closing the door now.” 

“Wait!” Gabriel cushions the slam of the door with his forearm and  _ wowowowow _ , that was not the smartest thing he could have done.

“Dude, I could have broken your arm!” Sam exclaims, reaching out to check that Gabriel’s bones were all in their proper place. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Gabriel says. “And since that’s not why I came--” 

“Look, I’m just gonna stop you right there,” Sam interjects, though doesn’t remove his hands from Gabriel’s arm. “I’m really not in the mood for whatever crap you’re about to give me, so--”

“Shut  _ UP! _ ” Gabriel whips his arm away-- _ owfuck-- _ and tucks it against his torso. “God, just,” he breathes, “Shut up, Sam. Jesus H. Tit, I came over here to fucking apologize to you, not to have a bitchfest on your porch. God for-fucking-bid I ever have a genuine moment.” 

“Come on, don’t do that,” Sam groans. 

Gabriel frowns, “do what?”

“Just--whatever that was,” Sam gestures, and when it becomes clear that Gabriel won’t get it no matter how he flails, he attempts to elaborate, “The whole sad clown thing.” 

Gabriel’s eyes narrow, “I have a sad clown thing?” 

“Ugh, never mind,” Sam threads his fingers through his hair and leans back against the door. Then, as though seeing Gabriel for the first time that night, he cocks his head.

“What?” Gabriel asks. 

“You do,” Sam drops his hands. “You have a black eye.” 

“Oh, that,” Gabriel clears his throat. “When I say it came to my attention that I’ve been a shithead, ‘it’ may have been my brother’s fist and my ‘attention’ may have been my face.” 

“Shit,” Sam breathes. “Are you okay?” 

“Y’know, it looks a lot worse than it feels,” Gabriel says, “I mean, I assume. I haven’t seen it yet. Never underestimate the scrawny nerdy one in the family.”

“Right,” Sam nods. “Well, I’ve gotta study, so…”

Oh god, this is all going to hell, isn’t it? But how exactly are you supposed to apologize to someone for being a grade A douchebag? How do people in movies do it? 

… scripts, right. Not real people. 

Damn it. 

“I’m sorry!” he finally blurts, leaving Sam with his eyebrows high on his forehead. Gabriel lets out a shaky breath, “Okay? I’m sorry. Not just for this weird whatever this is now, but everything. I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. And I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole to you, I just...

“I’m scared.” 

That part comes out so softly that Gabriel’s not even sure Sam can hear it until,

“Scared… of me?”

“No, not of you, you dickhole,” Gabriel shoves his hands in his pockets. “Imposing size aside, you’re about as hard as the fucking Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”

Sam frowns, “... the one who tried to destroy New York?” 

“That was just the demon ghost thing manifesting as the Stay Puft, not Stay Puft himself,” Gabriel reminds him, “Stay Puft himself is made out of marshmallows, for shit’s sake. Stop distracting me.” 

“Dude, how are you sweating, it’s like sixty degrees out.” 

“Because I’m freaking out, Sam!” Gabriel shouts. There’s a dull ache in the back of his skull. good, maybe he’ll stroke out before he can tell Sam anything. He’d better hurry.

“Because I can’t think about you without smiling,” he says, “or feeling like--I don’t know, like everything’s going to be okay? It scares the shit out of me Sam.” 

When Sam doesn’t reply, Gabriel realizes he has little to no choice in the matter. The spigot is on, the flood gates are open, and there’s no turning back. He can’t tell how long it is before he starts in again, or how fast the words spill out, Sam just has to know.

“And you’re--you’re going to California in a few months and I’m going to be stuck here and I won’t get to see you or hangout with you when I’ve had a shitty day, or when you’ve had a shitty day. You’re going to go on to all that adult crap and you’re going to realize I’m just--fucking terrible. And so I was trying to show you now so it wouldn’t be so difficult to say goodbye later.

“And now I’m crying on your porch because now you  _ know _ I’m a hot mess, freaky shithead waste all rolled into one fatass meat suit and--” 

Gabriel stills as soon as Sam’s arms close around him. He holds tight, like he’s afraid Gabriel might run if he lets go too soon. Never let it be said that Sam Winchester isn’t one astute little fucker. 

“Uh, Sam? Can’t really breathe here, kid.” 

Sam’s arms crush him tighter. 

“Or this is cool too.” 

“You’re not a waste,” Sam almost sounds like he’s crying. 

_ Oh _ . 

“Don’t ever say that again.” 

“Uh… okay?” Gabriel guesses, which turns out to be the correct answer. 

Sam finally lets him go and stares him right in the eye. Even when Gabriel tries to avert his eyes, Sam manages to pull him back. It’s a battle of wills and it ends with Sam holding Gabriel’s jaw firmly in place so that he has nowhere else to look. Gabriel shuts his eyes, because Sam can see everything now. He can see the rot and putrefaction that Gabriel so desperately tries to cover, and he’s not running. Why isn’t he running? 

Astute little fucker maybe, but it appears that ultimately Sam is about as big of an idiot as Gabriel is.  

“You’re my best friend, okay?” Sam says. “And I love you, so that means you’re not a waste of anything.” 

Gabriel’s chest constricts. This is it. This is the end. This is the part where The Pit opens up and swallows up Sam and Sam drags Gabriel down to the subterranean void with him because that’s what happens. That’s what happens when you let yourself fall for the Hollywood rom-com scam. 

He doesn’t realize he’s been holding Sam in a vice-grip until they part and Gabriel’s knuckles pulse with pain. He feels raw and pink and stinging--not even clean, just scrubbed. 

“I,” he begins, but the words get stuck again. Het lets out a breath and, “You too, Sam.” 

Sam’s eyebrows crunch. 

“Me too?” he asks. 

“Y’know, what you said,” Gabriel shrugs, attempting to pull away, but Sam’s steady hands on his shoulders keep him there. He tries not to sound annoyed when he tries to elaborate, “I just… ditto.” 

“Ditto,” Sam repeats. 

“You’re my best friend and I love you too, fuck!” Gabriel finally takes a step back. “Thanks for ruining the moment.” 

“That,” Sam folds his arms, though he can hardly hide his smile. “That’s how you want to play the rest of your hand here?” 

Gabriel’s shoulders sag and he sighs out an irritated,  _ “No _ .” 

Sam gives him a good hard look before he steps aside and pushes the door open. 

“Come on,” he says, and that’s all Gabriel needs.

But before he goes inside, he pulls Sam down by the hood of his sweater and pushes their lips together. Sam has to know that he’s not just fucking around, that what he’s feeling isn’t fleeting, or Gabriel slinging bullshit just so save his own ass. 

Basically, he needs to know that Gabriel isn’t actually the Gabriel he tries so desperately to be, and because Gabriel is really nothing but an emotionally stunted shit-for-brains, this is just how it has to go. 

When they pull apart, Sam’s eyes fix firmly on Gabriel’s again.

And he smiles. 

It may be the single most beautiful thing Gabriel has ever seen. 

And then the beauty is gone and the moment is squashed because Sam’s phone buzzes in his pocket. The message appears to go unnoticed, as all Sam says is, “Huh, 12:01.” 

He turns his phone so Gabriel can read,  _ 12:01 am, Saturday, May 2.  _

“Huh,” Gabriel repeats back. “Well, how the hell was that for a happy birthday?” 

“Yeah,” Sam laughs. “Dean’s gonna be pissed you beat him to it. Midnight on my birthday every year since I can remember, he’s always been the first one to wish me a happy birthday.” 

“Fuck yeah,” Gabriel grins. “Suck it, Winchester the First.” 

Sam’s smile sticks on his face, so naturally Gabriel has to kiss him to make it go away because there is no way he can look at that face without having some obscene emotional reaction. Sam laughs against him though and it makes Gabriel laugh back, because how the hell did this even happen? He treated Sam like shit, didn’t he? And they’re just going to mess around now, forget all about it, let bygones be gone by the wayside? Sam should hate him.

Everyone should hate him, really. 

“Hey,” Sam pulls him out of the roundabout up in his head. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t listen, okay? Come inside. I want you to.” 

_ Want _ . 

That’s kind of a nice word.

He’s the last of four kids; his parents already had two sons and a daughter by the time he came along. When the families merged, Castiel and Hannah came in their own set; Michael and Lucifer had always had a dynamic unlike any other, and Anna was, is, and will always be their dad’s little girl. 

What else was left after all of that? Not anything anybody wanted, that’s for sure. 

“Shit,” Gabriel pulls away, swiping the cuffs of his sweatshirt beneath his eyes. 

“Yeah, aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be crying if I want to?” Sam attempts a little levity, which makes Gabriel chuckle. Sam’s knuckles drag over his cheek and he reassures, “It’s okay, you can use my birthday perks.”

“I think the most disturbing thing about that was you calling this a party,” Gabriel shoots back, earning him a jab in the side and an annoyed-but-not-that-annoyed,  _ “Asshole”.  _

Gabriel lets Sam guide him back into the house.  It’s all dark, except for the flickering white-blue light coming from the den. When they pass by the doorway on their way to the stairs, Gabriel can see Bobby passed out cold on the couch. 

The same couch Sam and Gabriel had defaced not even five days before. 

“Does he know he’s sleeping on half gallon of my dried up bodily fluids?”

“Well, he will if you’re gonna shout it like that,” Sam whispers back. They pad up the stairs as quietly as they can, neither daring to say another word until Sam has shut the bedroom door behind them. 

“Come here,” Sam then says, and he moves to pull Gabriel close. Gabriel lets him, lets Sam do a lot of things, he realizes. He lets him cradle his face in his hands and kiss him like he’s too precious to let go, and yeah it’s weird, but it’s a weird Gabriel can live with. 

Sam tugs the zipper of Gabriel’s sweater all the way down. The air in the room is chilly, but Sam radiates warmth in every way. When his sweater falls to the floor, Gabriel hardly notices. He stands up on his toes to get his arms around Sam’s shoulders and-- 

“Jesus, ‘squatch!” Gabriel yelps as Sam heaves him up off the ground. “You ever think I might not like being manhandled?” 

Sam pauses, a serious look settling on his face before Gabriel takes mercy and covers Sam’s mouth with his. He’s squished all up on Sam Winchester, damn near literally climbing him like a tree, and it’s just.

It’s just freaking awesome. 

Sam maneuvers them and deposits Gabriel right down on his hastily-made bed. There’s no time to reorient himself. As soon as he’s horizontal, Sam comes down and holds Gabriel’s face, kissing him until he feels safe and sound. They pull apart, and Sam looks like he would be completely okay if Gabriel was the last thing he saw before he blinked out of existence. 

“I hated not being around you this week,” Sam says then, stroking his fingers through Gabriel’s hair. “You make everything feel better. Like, not like you fix everything, but… I don’t know. Having you with me or even just texting you stupid stuff makes me feel okay about stuff I usually don’t feel okay about.” 

It’s too genuine for Gabriel to mar with a sarcastic quip. Gabriel doesn’t open his mouth--he just guides Sam down until that inexplicably gorgeous head rests on his chest. Sam lets himself fall into it too, curling up the very second he realizes he’s allowed.

“I really am sorry,” Gabriel murmurs. 

Sam’s grip on him tightens. 

“This is all new to me,” Gabriel continues, voice still soft. “It doesn’t mean I don’t want it, though.” 

He stifles a yawn against Sam’s hair. 

“Yeah, me too,” Sam says. 

“Having feelings is exhausting,” Gabriel concludes through another yawn. 

“Agreed,” Sam yawns too. “You think we can squeeze in a birthday nap before the birthday sex?” 

“Best idea you’ve ever had,” Gabriel nods and tries not to laugh when Sam crawls up to burrow under his quilt. Gabriel kicks off his shoes and follows Sam’s example, swaddling himself in blankets and long, lanky limbs.

They fall asleep with smiles on their faces, breath mingling and fingers intertwined. 

And it’s good. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, I'm not dead yet! And hey, a tentative chapter count!
> 
> Dean's and Sam's points of view will be back in the next chapter. It just so happened that Gabriel and Castiel commanded all of the attention this time. 
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me and being supportive even as life tosses me seemingly everything in its arsenal. I'm pretty damn lucky to have supportive readers, even if I am hiding more often than not these days. It means so much that you all enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoy writing it. You're all awesome :)


	10. Chapter 10

Dean’s phone buzzes for the third time in as many minutes, which obviously means it’s time to wake up. It takes another minute and a half before he remembers--

“Birthday.” 

Shit. 

Cas is where he’s been for the last… wow, for almost the last week, his head burrowed under a pillow and all but dead to the world. The guy could sleep through a bomb and wake up all pissed that nobody bothered to make coffee before they threw the world into nuclear winter. 

Dean gets up before he can give himself time to join Cas back in Dream Land. Sammy is 18 today and, damn it, he deserves a party worthy of that accomplishment. He shuffles out into the kitchen to get some breakfast going for him (and for Cas, since that dweeb would forget to eat if he didn’t have someone shoving food at him), only to find that Charlie is up and already started the coffee maker. 

She eats cereal at the counter in nothing but a pair of Rebel Alliance boxers and--charming--a button down pajama top that Dean suspected has never once been buttoned. 

“Free tittin’ in the apartment?” Dean asks. “That’s bold.” 

“You do it,” Charlie shrugs without looking up. 

“Yikes,” Dean sucks his teeth. “No luck on the clam hunt last night?” 

Charlie flips up her middle finger. 

“Well, if you wanna come with me and Cas, we’re gonna go get Sam drunk for his birthday,” Dean says. 

“Despite the legal drinking age being 21?” Charlie asks. 

“C’mon, when’s that ever stopped us?” Dean grins back, and it isn’t until Charlie sets down her bowl and looks him dead in the eye that he asks, “Dude, what’s with you?”

“Nothing’s with me,” she shakes her head, the ghost of a smile on her face. “You’re so into him.” 

Dean frowns, “... Sam?” 

“Cas, you nerf-herder,” Charlie rolls her eyes. “Sam… your affinity for penises is awful enough, don’t make it weirder.” 

“Eugh, okay,” Dean feels his face scrunch, “Point taken.” 

“Is it, though?” Charlie winces. “Come on, you’re better than that. If you’re gonna play coy, at least put in a little effort.” 

“Man, how do you manage to be so smug when you’ve got your highbeams pointed right at me,” Dean says.

“That sounds like a Dean problem, Dean,” Charlie replies, hands on her hips and--Jesus--flashes her tits even more prominently. “However, I will deign to cover up if you admit you’ve got it bad for that little bushbaby.” 

A moment passes before Dean asks, “Bushbaby?” 

“Stop stalling, Winchester,” Charlie quirks an eyebrow, “Or the next thing you’re gonna see is my beav, and I promise you will not be pleased.” 

“Dude, can we have one conversation that doesn’t end with you blinding me with your… burning bush?” 

“Okay,” Charlie sighs, but just as she hooks her thumbs into her waistband Dean yells, “All right, all right! I’m totally into Cas, just cover your tits and for the love of god, do not flash your twat at me.” 

“See?” Charlie perks up and begins to button her top, “That wasn’t so hard.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” Dean says, “And, to be honest, I don’t know that it ever will be again.” 

“Oh, get over it,” Charlie tuts. 

“And for the record, I’m  _ into you _ as well.” 

“Christ on toast!” Dean yelps and whirls around to see Castiel behind them, a cup of coffee in hand sleep crust still in the corners of his eyes. “How long have you been there?” 

“Long enough to know that Charlie has very symmetrical breasts,” Castiel raises his mug in a toast. 

“Thank you,” Charlie beams. 

“That’s it,” Dean throws up his hands. “I’m never talking to either of you again.” 

“Liar,” says Charlie just as Castiel delivers a frank, “I highly doubt the legitimacy of that threat.” 

Despite the world conspiring against him this morning, Dean manages to eat breakfast and pull on some clean clothes. Charlie and Cas both agree to be on party patrol with Dean, though neither seems to have any ideas beyond cake and soda. It’s at this point in the middle of the grocery store that Dean has to remind them that Sam is turning eighteen, not eight, but that seems to hold little influence over their party planning ideas. 

Which is how they end up at Bobby’s with crepe paper streamers, sodas, and an ice cream cake with a purple-haired clown holding a bunch of balloons. The woman at the bakery counter quickly inscribed a  _ “Happy Birthday Sam!”  _ coming out of the clown’s mouth, for which both Charlie and Cas admonish him, but whatever. What’s the point of being an older brother if you can’t do dumb shit like this? 

“Sam?” Dean calls just as Cas slides the cake into the freezer. When there’s no response, Cas shrugs. 

“Still asleep?” Charlie ventures a guess. 

Cas checks his phone for the time,“A distinct possibility, given that he was probably up until daybreak trying to cram a year’s worth of physics into his brain.” 

“Fucking nerd,” Dean shakes his head, and from the depths of his pants pockets he pulls out, not one, but two--

“Silly string?” Cas’ eyebrows fly up, with Charlie’s, “Are you twelve?” following closely behind. 

“Bitch, I might be,” Dean winks at her and flips one can at her. “Gear up, we’ll go rouse him.” 

“Where did you even get these?” Charlie asks. 

“Keestered ‘em,” Dean shrugs. “So what?” 

“Oh, did you?” Cas leans back on the counter, lips quirked in a filthy half-smile. 

“Can it,” Dean commands, only for Cas to return with, “I’ll say. You’re clearly more talented than you let on.” 

“I’m sorry, did you say you wanted to silly string your brother awake, or did you just make your queen scale half a staircase for no good reason?” Charlie asks, sure enough from halfway up the stairs. 

“Yeah, yeah, we’re not playing right now,” Dean shakes his head. 

Charlie cocks her head and with a regal air says, “Oh child, I will always be your queen.” 

Cas tiptoes beside Dean, and the three make their way to the upstairs landing. Sam’s door is unlocked, and Charlie, having the steadiest hands among the three of them, twists the knob so that no sound could possibly be heard. The hinges squeak, but the lump on Sam’s bed doesn’t stir. 

They attempt some hand signals, but eventually Dean gives up and decide to mouth to Cas,  _ “Pull the covers off, on three _ .” 

Cas salutes, and without a speck of nonsense on his face stands at the ready. 

Dean counts off on his fingers,  _ “One… two… three! _ Up and at ‘em birthday boy!” 

Cas whips off the covers, and--

Dean doesn’t know what he expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. What is ‘this’? ‘This’ is his damn beanpole of a little brother wrapped around Cas’ dickhead of an older brother like ivy hugging a goddamn corinthian column. 

Completely clothed, at least. 

“Uh, wow,” Dean says as Sam and Gabriel both stir. 

They look like they haven’t so much as rolled over in hours. 

“Shit, what time is it?” Sam asks. 

“It’s ten o’clock on your birthday morning and I’m actually at a loss for words,” Dean replies. 

“Clearly,” Gabriel grunts as he shifts up onto his elbows. The skin around his left eye puffs out, layered in a swathe of purple and blue. He looks from Dean to Cas and then over to Charlie and sticks out his hand, “Gabriel.” 

Charlie takes it cautiously, as though a lesbian and an unclassified non-heterosexual even touching would rip the very fabric of space-time. 

“It can’t be ten,” Sam pats around for his phone. 

“Yeah, I feel way too refreshed for this early,” Gabriel agrees. 

“Because we slept for like, eleven hours,” Sam buries his face in his hands. “How?” 

“My guess is because you were both exhausted,” Cas crosses his arms.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Gabriel grunts. 

“Not to be ‘that guy’, but what the hell happened to your face?” Dean asks. 

“Why don’t you ask your boyfriend?” Gabriel finally sits up properly, patting Sam’s shoulder on the way. Sam, who’s gone back to lying on his stomach like there’s nothing left to live for. 

“Okay, to be fair, I--” All eyes turn to Castiel and he immediately wilts. “--was acting impulsively based on information I had received only moments earlier. I see now that my actions were obviously premature.” 

“Don’t sweat it, little brother--”

“--older than you--” Cas reminds him under his breath.  _ Oops, right.  _

“--I needed a good ass-kicking, is my point,” Gabriel finishes. “Thanks for letting me make that unimpeded.” 

“Okay, wait,” Dean holds up a hand and turns to Cas. “You punched him?” 

“I did,” Castiel nods. “Sam was upset and Gabriel is notoriously an idiot when it comes to these kinds of things. In hindsight, physical violence wasn’t the way to go, but, as I said, I was acting on impulse and my impulses are also notoriously stupid a lot of the time.” 

“Well, you’re into Dean, so,” Sam pipes up, leaving Charlie and Gabriel chuckling. 

“Nice,” Gabriel nods, and holds out his fist for a bump that Sam lazily returns. 

In yet another stunning display of maturity, Dean points and promptly empties his can of silly string all over Gabriel.

Sam finally rolls over and sits up, and gingerly plucks a glob out of Gabriel’s hair.

“Not gonna lie, not the Winchester I thought would leave a sticky mess in my hair today.” 

At which point, Charlie sprays the both of them until her can hisses and sputters blobs of goop. Gabriel and Sam both look at her, then at one another, and like that leap up in an attempt to retaliate with a barrage of pillows. The five of them tromp downstairs in one loud, uninhibited stampede. Bobby’s at the garage, gave Dean the day off so he could make sure Sam would have some fun today, and that seems to be exactly what happens. 

They break out the nerf guns from the deepest depths of the garage. Sam and Dean team up against Cas and Gabriel, while Charlie works as a rogue sniper, taking out whomsoever she pleased, whenever she pleased. It’d been years since Dean and Sam had climbed on top of the old junkyard cars and let out battle cries worthy of the most vicious of warriors, and Cas and Gabriel, it appears, are more than capable of keeping up with them. 

They order pizza when they all start to feel the gurgling in their stomachs. They drink too much soda, eat too much pizza, and when they find a Lord of the Rings marathon on TV, it’s only fitting that Dean sinks into the sofa and rests his head on Cas’ shoulder. Charlie and Sam launch into one of their many tangents that, at any other time, Dean would have been happy to join in on. Except, Cas smells nice and his shoulder is surprisingly comfy for something so bony. 

Also, Cas is getting pretty into the discussion himself. 

When Dean glances over at Sam, parked on the floor with Gabriel between his legs, leaning back on him, he notices Gabriel staring right at him. There’s a silent exchange that happens without Dean even meaning it to; he doesn’t know Gabriel all that well, but Sam seems pretty certain that he’s right where he belongs.

Between his legs. 

… why. Why does his brain have to go there?

Apropos of nothing, Dean asks, “Havin’ a good birthday, kid?” 

Sam catches himself mid-conversation, oh-so fortuitously at the moment Gabriel decides to toss his hat into the Lord of the Rings conversation. Dean gets to share a moment with his little brother in the midst of all these people, gets to hear Sam say, “Yeah, I am. Thanks, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

Being eighteen feels remarkably like being seventeen. So far, the only part that’s been different has been Gabriel telling him that they can finally lift the ban on dick pics, but other than that it’s just about the same. 

“That’s already a vast improvement,” Gabriel defends himself for the second time today. “I don’t know if you know this, but you’ve got a bangin’ dick. Bangable, even.” 

All of a sudden, it seems like a blessing in disguise that everyone else is either asleep or very close to it. 

“Which reminds me,” Gabriel continues, “We haven’t even gotten to the birthday sex yet.” 

“I knew you only wanted me for my body,” Sam teases, not meaning to get Gabriel to turn a frown on him so fast. 

“After everything I said,” he raises his eyebrows. “I pour my heart out and you think I’m only around here to ride your dick?” 

“You mention riding my dick a lot,” Sam observes. 

“Again, if you were the one riding your dick, you’d mention it a lot too,” Gabriel rolls over to his knees, still right in front of Sam, and presses their foreheads together. “But you’re also great, and I want to ride your wise and ample mind just as bad as I want to ride your beautifully sculpted penis.” 

“Wow,” Sam laughs, “Just when I think you’ve reached the pinnacle of depravity--” 

“Hey,” Gabriel nips his chin, “C’mon, you know I love you, dork.” 

Sam feels his cheeks go red, “You, um. You know I was teasing you, right? I mean, I know you love me, I was just giving you a hard time.”

“Mm, not hard enough,” Gabriel bounces his eyebrows, loops his arm around Sam’s neck and gives him a kiss. 

Not for any particular reason that Sam can discern, even. It’s just a kiss. 

And it’s nice. 

“Now, I recall the words ‘ice cream cake’ coming out of your brother’s mouth,” Gabriel says as soon as they part. “You think it’s legit?” 

“Oh my god,” Sam laughs as Gabriel springs to his feet. “You’re somethin’ else.” 

“Come on, you know I have two functions,” Gabriel says, “Hungry and horny. And right now it’s a little of both. I can’t decide which is more pressing at the moment, so I’m just gonna take care of the one and maybe the other will sort itself out some time in the foreseeable future.” 

Sam chuckles and follows him into the kitchen. Out of the freezer, Gabriel pulls a plastic grocery store cake container. It’s appropriately decorated for a fourth grader’s birthday party, complete with balloons and--

“Oh, come  _ on _ ,” Sam groans, averting his eyes. 

“Wow, when you guys clown around, you go all the way,” Gabriel whistles, only for Sam to smack him a second later. 

“You’re not funny,” he says. 

“Well, you’re stuck with me,” Gabriel says. “You brought this upon yourself.”

The plastic cover cracks once, twice, and Gabriel laughs. 

“Hey, man, Lucifer special ordered a pan from Dildos ‘n’ Things just so he could give me a dick shaped cake on my eighteenth birthday,” he says. “Gotta say, of all the times Lucifer’s told me to eat a dick, that was the only time I ever followed through. It wasn’t bad. Cream filling was a little tacky, though. In consistency, not style.” 

“Jesus,” Sam sighs. He knows it’s just a clown made out of cake frosting, and it’s nowhere near as creepy as it could be, but still. Dean is a jackass. 

“Okay, here,” Gabriel taps him on the shoulder, mouth full of something. Sam turns and sees that now the clown is missing his head. Around what Sam now knows to be a glob of frosting, Gabriel says, “Problem solved.” 

“You beheaded my birthday clown,” Sam says. 

“I did,” Gabriel swallows. “One way or another, when I want head I get head.” 

Gabriel turns a cheeky grin up at Sam, red and yellow frosting still on his teeth, and Sam just shakes his head. 

“You’re the worst,” he says. 

“You keep saying ‘best’ wrong,” Gabriel shoots back, and fuck it, Sam has to kiss him just to get him to shut the hell up. 

Or he just has to kiss him, because hey, it’s not a lot of people who’ll decapitate a clown for someone they love, even if the clown is only made of frosting. 

Sam backs Gabriel up against a clear space on the counter and lifts him up onto the counter. There’s sugar on Gabriel’s tongue and Sam drops his jaw, opens up so Gabriel can deepen their kiss. It’s open mouthed and probably just on the edge of disgusting, which is why it sucks so hard that the screen door opens at that exact moment, and they’re broken up by a pair of gasps. 

“Aw hell, boy,” Uncle Bobby tosses his keys down on the dining table. “What’s with you and communal spaces?” 

And dad… dad just stands there, looking on like he can’t process what he’s seeing. 

Oh fuck. 

Oh fuck, what the  _ fuck? _

“Dad, what are you doing here?” Sam’s voice won’t stay steady. Gabriel’s body goes so still that Sam actually has to look him in the eye to make sure he’s still alive. 

“What’s all this?” is dad’s only response, prickling the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck. 

“Mr. Winchester, I presume,” says Gabriel as he slides off the counter. Sam can feel dad’s disapproval as Gabriel’s height (or, lackthereof) became apparent. 

“Dad, Uncle Bobby, this is Gabriel,” Sam manages to say. “He’s my, uh. My boyfriend.” 

“Gentlemen,” Gabriel salutes. 

“What’s going on?” comes Dean’s voice, and then an, “Oh, shit. Hey, dad.” 

This is hell.

… until Charlie and Cas shuffle into the kitchen too, and if watching his son mack on another dude wasn’t enough to get his blood pressure way up high, seeing his other son with a hickey on his neck and a guy nearly attached to his hip may actually get him to stroke out and now it’s especially hell. 

Mega-hell, if you will. 

“I think I left our oven on,” Charlie says then. “Castiel, you should come help me turn it off.” 

“You have an electric stove,” Cas frowns, but upon looking to Dean seems to understand. He snaps his fingers, “But you can never be too careful with that kind of thing. Charlie, lead the way.” 

Whether they’re actually headed back to the apartment or just hiding out front in the bushes, Sam can’t say. Sam’s heart beats so fast it may as well have been an old, beat up motor stuttering against his sternum. He’s pretty sure if he opens up his mouth, a billow of oily black smoke would seep out. 

Gabriel doesn’t move. 

“What in the hell is going on here, Bobby?” dad now turns his incredulity to Uncle Bobby, who stands with his arms folded and a look on his face that said ‘Who the hell’s Bobby?’. 

“Okay, so this isn’t ideal,” Dean tries to pacify, but Sam jumps in. 

“Why are you even here?” he asks. 

“I’m sorry, I thought it was my son’s eighteenth birthday,” says dad. He looks over to Dean, “And why the fuck don’t you answer your phone, by the way? I called you three times to tell you I was coming out here for his damn birthday.” 

“Oh,” Dean shrinks where he stands, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah, that’s my bad.”

Great. His brother was probably too busy blowing Cas to answer his phone this morning. 

_ Ew _ . 

“Mr. Winchester, if I may,” Gabriel puts up a finger. 

But dad just looks at him, at a loss for any words other than, “I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

“Harsh, but fair,” Gabriel concedes. “You see, your son and I were engaged in the prelude to a ritual that heterosexuals refer to as ‘mating’--”

“Dude!” Sam shouts. “You’re not helping.”

“Sam, please, this is what my people do,” Gabriel says. “Mr. Winchester, as I was saying, your son and I were making out on his… not-uncle’s kitchen counter. Your son, who, I might add, is a solid ten out of ten, knock it out of the park babe.” 

Sam may actually die right here.

Eighteen years… that’s a good run, right? 

“And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a C plus in my best light in my most slimming control top jeans--” 

“Gabe!” 

“He’s asking what’s going on when the answer is exactly what he goddamn thinks it is!” Gabriel argues back. “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Winchester, but your son likes dick. Not just mine either, though he’s inexplicably drawn to mine, but as I said: C plus, I’m trying not to question it anymore.” 

“For the love of Christ, boy, stick a cork in it,” Bobby finally snaps. 

“Right,” Gabriel nods and takes a step back toward Sam. “Well, tough crowd, but I got ‘em warmed up for you.” 

“I hate you so much right now,” Sam mutters, even if the look of disbelief on his dad’s face is like seeing the gates of heaven for the very first time. 

“Dad,” Dean pipes up. “Not to pile on here, but since we’re putting it all out there--”

“Oh, not you too,” dad puts his face in his hands. 

“Hey!” Sam snaps. “Dean’s trying to tell you something.” 

“I’m well aware of that, Sam,” dad’s eyebrows fly up. 

“Then listen!” Sam demands. “God, you can’t just come around here whenever you feel like it and just kick up shit while you’re here. You wanna give me something for my birthday? How about a little common courtesy when your kid wants to tell you something important, instead of just saying ‘oh, not you too’. Who even does that?” 

Sam can hear Gabriel very distinctly say  _ “Boomers”  _ through his fake cough. 

But dad just sighs and agrees, “You’re right.”

… well, that’s new.

“Just--I have two gay sons, just let me process this for a second.”

“A. You have two polysexual sons, no?” Gabriel corrects, looking to either Winchester for their nod of approval. “Pan-, bi-, multi-, poly-, whatever prefix you want. Chicks and dicks, both your boys like ‘em. And quite possibly chicks  _ with _ dicks, but that’s a discussion for another time, wink-wink.”

“You knew about this?” dad asks Uncle Bobby. 

“Knew about the tall one,” Uncle Bobby says, then points to Dean, “Didn’t know, but can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Oh, fuck you guys,” Dean crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Hey, no shame in takin’ dick like a champ,” Gabriel winks and points a finger gun right at Dean. 

“Okay,” dad nods. “This is okay.”

Who knows who he’s trying to convince at this point. 

“Bisexual,” Dean mumbles to the room, then repeating to himself, “ _ can’t say I’m surprised _ …” 

“You know I still sign your paychecks, right?” Uncle Bobby asks, and that shuts Dean up right quick. 

Sam takes a breath. Gabriel’s methods might be unconventional, but at least Sam is feeling a little better about the whole thing. 

“Look, this is just weird for me, all right?” dad says, voice remarkably level. There was a time that this scenario would have ended with a brown or green bottle splintering against the wall behind Sam’s or Dean’s heads, but not anymore. 

“Kinda like it was weird for us to meet your new wife and our little brother?” Sam offered. 

Dad looks him right in the eye. 

“Boy… I’ve been a real son of a bitch, haven’t I?” 

Sam squints without even meaning to, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Jesus,” dad laughs, “I’m an insensitive asshole, you’re pissed at me. I try to make amends, you’re pissed at me. I can’t win.”

“Probably because he’s pissed at you,” Gabriel shrugs. 

“Gabe--”

“Whatever, not talking.”

“Okay!” Dean shouts over all of them now. “Everyone, just take a chill pill. Dad, maybe we coulda broken this to you better. Actually, we totally could have, but we didn’t. You could’ve eased us into your whole new family with the kid and the wife--”

“Fiance,” dad corrects. “Which reminds me, we want you both at the wedding.” 

“Time,” Gabriel rubs his temples, tired, “Place.” 

“Point is, we’re all dicks,” says Dean. “And I don’t know about you, but if you’re willing to try to be less of a dick about it, I’m willing to try too.” 

“Well, I don’t like the word ‘try’, but I also don’t like the idea of being less of a dick,” Gabriel replies. 

“Well it’s a good fucking thing I’m not talking to you, isn’t it?” Dean asks, and looks back to Sam. “What’re you thinking?” 

“That adulthood is already too much to handle and it’s only been fourteen hours,” Sam offers. 

“I gotta say, I’m not liking that this guy makes you somehow bitchier than you already were,” Dean says. 

Sam sighs and looks up at the ceiling. He can feel the shadow of Gabriel’s body heat on him, can hear that little whistle in his nose that he refuses to acknowledge he has. Gabriel’s here, literally has Sam’s back in this moment, and somehow it’s not enough until there’s a hand on his shoulder and a soft, “Hey, remember that thing I said about accepting your anger and being pissed? I forgot to mention you don’t have to hold onto it forever.” 

The coils in Sam’s chest loosen. Gabriel’s forehead comes to rest between his shoulderblades and Sam can feel it. He can feel the fog clearing, can feel Gabriel’s voice rumble right through the blood and muscle and sinew and bone right into his heart. 

“Fine,” he ends up saying. “I can try to be less of a dick to you, dad.” 

The only reason he looks at dad’s face is to make sure the bastard got the message. The fact that said bastard is smiling like he just won the lottery should probably make Sam feel something other than irritated, but he just made a pledge to try, so try he shall. 

“My graduation is next month,” he continues. “Maybe you could bring Kate and Adam.” 

Sam isn’t ready for the hug his dad delivers, but he takes it in stride anyway. 

Trying. 

Right.

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s knuckles still hurt from the day before. He flexes and bends them, making double-triple-quadruple sure that there aren’t any broken bones that need the attention of a medical professional. Charlie sits beside him on the porch steps, watching. 

“Did you really clock your brother for Sam?” she asks. 

“I did,” Castiel nods. “As I said earlier, a lot of my impulses are still stupid.” 

“Well, you’re eighteen,” Charlie points out, “And a guy, so that’s to be expected.”

“I’m not sure that gender or sex had anything to do with it, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Castiel says. Something doesn’t sit right in his stomach. He expected Gabriel to come out with him and Charlie until the Winchester smoke cleared, but he hasn’t yet and it’s been more than ten minutes. 

“I should check on them,” Castiel floats the idea more than states it as fact. 

“Trust me, you’re better off out here,” Charlie says, then realizes, “Although, where is Gabriel?” 

The screen door clatters against the doorjamb, but it’s not Gabriel coming to join them; it’s Dean beckoning them back inside. Castiel shoots to his feet in an instant. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

Dean breaks into a smile, soft but sure, “Yeah, I’m good, actually.” 

“What happened?” Charlie braces her hands on her hips. “You look suspiciously unscathed.”

Dean shrugs then, “I guess I’m not.” 

Castiel doesn’t quite buy it. He steps a little closer to Dean, strokes the soft hair behind his ears and cocks his head. 

“I promise, you dork,” Dean lets out a laugh. “I’m okay.” 

And Castiel has two options: be okay with this statement, false or not, and move on, or turn into his mother and hound Dean for the rest of eternity about his father. 

“Okay,” Castiel nods. 

“‘sides, you’ve already dinged up your hand enough for one week,” Dean takes Cas’ right hand in his and gingerly brushes his fingers over the blue and purple blotches. “You’re somethin’ else, you know?” 

Castiel chooses to answer this by closing his lips over Dean’s. Dean lets out a harsh breath through his nose, and despite his claims of being okay, he holds onto Castiel like he’s the only thing to cling to in the void. 

“Okay, well,” Charlie coughs. “This is lovely.” 

Dean pulls away from Castiel’s lips with a little  _ ‘smack!’  _ and gives Charlie an overly fond, “Shut up.”

Castiel, being the secret slut for attention that he is, pulls Dean into another kiss. It’s shorter than he’d like, since Dean can’t seem to stop smiling, but he gets a smiley Dean in exchange for a lengthier kiss and right now that feels more than worth it.

“I, um,” Dean clears his throat then. “I told my dad that I’m, y’know--”

“A raging queer?” Charlie asks. 

“Bisexual,” Dean flips her off. 

“Are you okay?” Castiel feels compelled to ask. 

“I think I’m fine, actually,” Dean looks from Castiel to Charlie. “Kinda like ripping off a band-aid, y’know?” 

Charlie narrows her eyes, “And exactly how many times have I told you that during the course of our friendship?”

“Fine,” Dean sighs, “ _ You were right _ .” 

“Say it like you mean it,” Charlie demands. Dean lets go of Castiel and throws himself at her feet.

“Oh wise and gracious queen, will you forgive me for my trespasses against Kingdom, Crown, and Her Majesty Herself?” 

Charlie crosses her arms primly across her chest and looks down at him. She declares, “And so you are pardoned, handmaiden.”  

It’s one of the oddest, most touching displays of friendship that Castiel has ever seen, and it occurs to him that he’s a part of this. He’s a part of them. These are his friends. Not small furry ones scurrying through rainbow-colored tubes (though, he does love those ones very much), nor are they his family; he doesn’t go to school with them or swim in competitions with them. Dean and Charlie didn’t have to like him, but they did.

They do.

“Grand High Sorcerer,” Charlie then commands, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Please disregard all of my decrees and all of my fox messenger notes; the handmaiden need no longer be cursed.” 

Castiel realizes a little too late that, oh, they want him to answer. 

“Um, I don’t have my wand,” he says, but raises his right hand and crosses Dean with it, “ _ Finite Incantatem _ .”

Dean snorts and rolls to his feet, while Charlie just nods on with an impressed, “Nice.” 

They head inside after that to find that Sam and Gabriel have already dug into the ice cream cake. With them at the table, each with their own slices of cake, sit Bobby and Mr. Winchester. 

Bobby and Mr. Winchester, who (that sounds too formal and respectful for what Castiel has heard about this man, but he is the man who made Dean and therefore Castiel can’t be totally cold), turn to look at them the second they hear them enter the kitchen. 

“Um, dad this is Cas,” Dean says, tugging Castiel forward by the shirt sleeve. “He’s my boyfriend… I think.” 

Bobby squints, but whatever he’s about to say gets swallowed back and replaced with, “Ain’t my business.” 

“Mm, ready for another mindfuck?” Gabriel points his fork at Castiel and says, “That’s my brother.” 

“ _ Step _ brother,” Castiel feels the need to correct, “And for what it’s worth, Mr. Winchester, I am sorry this is how you found out. Although, my mother found out in a grocery store, so I suppose mine wasn’t as graceful a coming out as it could have been.” 

“Jesus, just sit the hell down and eat some cake,” Gabriel nags.

Actually nags. 

While Dean and Charlie fight over the corner piece of cake, Castiel remains locked in awkward not eye contact with Mr. Winchester. 

“Your parents are okay with,” Mr. Winchester gestures to the whole of him. 

“I presume as much,” Castiel shrugs. And if they aren’t it’s not really any of their business. If anything, they’re more concerned with Hannah finding a husband than they are with Castiel finding one, which is incredibly strange to him. His parents are very progressive, but there’s a gendered double standard they can’t get--

“Yo, Castiel!” Gabriel’s shout jars him from his thoughts. Every set of eyes is on him. 

… damn it. 

“I just said all of that, didn’t I?” he asks. 

“Yup,” Gabriel is the only one who seems content to keep eating at this point, probably because he’s been dealing with it for most of their lives. 

“Well, then,” Castiel looks up at the clock above the window--more a decoration than anything, as it is not 4:20 in the afternoon. 

Has Gabriel really been here enough times to have done that? 

“Cas!” 

Castiel snaps out of it again and swears. 

“Boy, just sit the hell down and have some cake,” Bobby chides. 

Castiel does as he’s told. Dean brings him a slice of cake, around bites of which he answers Mr. Winchester’s other questions. What grade he’s in, what classes he takes, how he and Dean met. What he’s not expecting is getting the question that’s been pestering him for days, but hasn’t been able to identify. 

“What about college?” 

Castiel shifts. He and Dean haven’t talked about it or anything, mostly because Castiel hasn’t even thought about it. He’s  been sweeping it under the rug until the last moment possible, and with all the chaos of the last few weeks, of Hannah and Castiel studying for their AP exams, mom and dad haven’t even pestered him about it. 

“I applied to a handful,” Castiel finally says. “I didn’t get into Stanford, though.” 

“Oh, you applied there too?” Mr. Winchester asks. 

He prays he doesn’t say what he’s thinking aloud, which is  _ I only applied there so I could keep fooling around with your other son _ .

By the looks on everyone’s faces, he didn’t. 

“I did, but I think I’m just going to go to South Dakota State University,” Castiel says. “My dad teaches there, I’ll get my tuition paid for and I can stick around here.” 

He doesn’t mean to, but he looks over at Dean for some sort of silent reassurance that… what? That he’s not giving up some grand life to stay here? He didn’t have any grand plans for his life to begin with. He’s a weird guy who likes weird things, one of which is Dean Winchester. 

Maybe it’s not reassurance for him as much as it is for Dean, and Castiel just did it without realizing that’s what he was doing, because Dean’s face lights up the second he hears this. 

“Yeah?” he asks. “I mean, you’re sure?” 

“What am I going to do, Dean?” Castiel asks. “Probably major in something like English, so I may as well not break the bank doing this anywhere else.” 

Dean tries (and fails) to contain his glee.

 

* * *

 

Gabriel gets the blowjob of his life as soon as everyone’s gone. He tries to talk Sam out of it, because it’s his birthday and Gabriel should be giving  _ him _ the blowjob of his life, but Sam pummels him onto the bed and makes out with him hardcore. When Gabriel asks what is with him, Sam gives him this breathless grin and slides down his body, which leads back to his original sentiment: 

Blowjob 

Of 

His life

He comes so hard that  Sam coughs and very obviously gets more in his mouth than he thought he would, because when Gabriel finally gets back to earth all he sees is Sam swiping his lips with a tissue. 

“What was that for?” Gabriel pushes himself up, but his legs and arms quake with the sheer intensity of what just went down and he falls back. 

“Do I need a reason?” Sam asks. “It’s my birthday and you’re about as easy as a remedial algebra class.” 

“I got a C in remedial algebra,” Gabriel says as Sam skims his fingernails over the uber sensitive skin on the underside of his belly. 

“Yeah, but not because you’re bad at math,” Sam hums. He rests his head on Gabriel’s thigh, and he’s got this dopey grin on his face that makes Gabe’s intestines twist in the greatest possible way. “You got a C because you don’t like school.” 

Gabriel groans, “Come on, man. You can’t say nice shit to me  _ and _ fellate me like it’s your goddamn divine calling.” 

“Shut up,” Sam pokes him in the side. “You’re smart, and you almost made my dad swallow his own tongue a couple of times today. Those aren’t related, but I’m not gonna lie, I kinda liked it.” 

Gabriel’s eyebrows furrow and he pushes himself back up. 

“Did me being a shit to your dad make you randy for me?” he asks. 

Sam shrugs,”Does it matter?” 

“Hell fuckin’ no,” Gabriel laughs. He drags his fingers through Sam’s hair, and damn, if this kid had the capacity, he’d be purring like a motherfucking jungle cat right now. 

Before they get too comfortable, Gabriel taps him on the back of the head and says, “Hey, lemme do you.” 

Sam hums, looking entirely content to just fall asleep there. 

That will not do. 

“Gorgeous, I know you’ve got a boner the size of a stone pillar,” Gabriel says. “And I’ve got an ass that’s pretty damn fond of stone pillars, so…” 

Sam lets out a laugh, tries to stifle it against Gabriel’s thigh, but it’s fruitless. He’s giddy, giddier than Gabriel’s ever seen him, and it’s fuckin’ transcendent. 

“Does that mean I get to take off your pants?” Sam asks, peeling off Gabriel’s jeans before he gets an answer. He noses the crease between Gabriel’s thigh and hip, kisses his spent-but-not-so-spent cock and drifts down to his sac and gives it the same attention. Gabriel’s toes curl, but there’s no chance he can come again, not right this second. He sucks in a breath when Sam’s tongue brushes against his hole and attempts to squirm away. 

“Okay, okay,” he says, “We’re revisiting that when I haven’t been sweating my taint off all day.” 

Sam snorts, but pulls away and agrees, “Fine.” 

“It’s a charming quality, Sam,” Gabriel replies entirely serious despite the levity in his voice, “Eating ass when you’re in a good mood, like. Kudos. That’s a five star trait, kid, honestly.” 

Sam chuckles as he rolls to his feet. There’s no preamble to anything, just Sam whipping off his t-shirt and shucking his pants like he’s the world’s biggest corncob. 

Just as Gabriel expected, he’s rock hard and damn near purple with need. 

“Shirt off,” Sam directs, and Gabriel complies. Sam pulls open his dresser drawer and pulls out a condom and what looks to be a brand new bottle of lube. 

“Oh?” Gabriel smirks. 

“Whatever,” Sam tosses both on the bed and gets back on his knees between Gabriel’s legs. “After all your talk about being prepared, I figured I may as well. Just in case.” 

“Break glass in case of butt fucking?” Gabriel laughs. 

Sam replies by sucking a hickey into the skin on the inside of Gabriel’s thigh, then proceeds to open Gabriel up with all the loving attention one might expect of a man deflowering his delicate virgin bride. Sam doesn’t speed up, doesn’t go harder, even when Gabriel tells him he can do both of those things. 

“My birthday sex, my rules,” Sam says. 

Finger by finger, kiss by kiss, Gabriel’s muscles loosen and his breaths come so much easier. Sam has obviously looked into some stuff online, maybe even became a certified prostate masseuse. It kills Gabriel that he can’t be louder (Sam’s uncle is still here, since, y’know, it’s his house), because Sam needs to know just how fucking mind-blowing this is. 

“Good?” Sam, also, has apparently learned how to read minds. 

And how to punch into his prostate at just the right moment.

Although his whimper definitely speaks for itself, Gabriel still breathes deep so he can praise, “So fucking good, Sam.” 

Then the fingers are gone and Sam’s lips are back on his, but rather than the frantic fumbling that took place in the kitchen earlier, or even pre-blowjob. This one takes like sex, but feels like something much more emotional. He can feel the need rolling off of Sam, can feel him shaking because he’s so turned on and so ready to sink into tight heat, but he’s completely intent on kissing Gabriel until he can’t breathe anymore. 

In the spirit of speeding things along, Gabriel reaches down and just barely cups his hand over Sam’s cock. It’s Sam’s turn to whimper, and damn, if Gabriel thought he sounded close to the brink, he’s nowhere near Sam. 

“Condom, handsome,” Gabriel reminds him, and Sam nods. He manhandles Gabriel until they’re all the way on the bed. 

“I can’t,” Sam pants, “My hands are slippery.” 

The condom packet lands on Gabriel’s stomach with a slap. 

Gabriel sits up, shaking his head as he mutters, “Gotta do everything around here.” 

Though, to be fair, if Sam touches himself he might explode. 

“Okay, there,” Gabriel huffs, task complete. “Now fuck me before I end you, gigantor.” 

Sam hikes him up and guides him down onto his cock, stifling Gabriel’s grunts and sighs with his lips. He’s stretched so far, so full, but Sam is patient. They adjust, pistoning against one another with the kind of care and attention Gabriel doesn’t recall from the other day. Maybe it was there, who knows. Gabriel is notoriously stupid when it comes to recognizing a good thing when he’s got it. 

“Lie back?” Sam huffs against his lips, and Gabriel nods. 

Sam guides him back like the goddamn gentle giant that he is, fucking cradles him like he’s precious. Gabriel doesn’t know that he’ll ever get used to that. He tries to return the favor, holding Sam as he rolls into him. 

He’s getting close. They both are. Gabriel is sensitive and raw, but he wants this for Sam. He wants him to come. 

“I’m close,” Gabriel huffs. 

Sam nods, “Me too.” 

It’s noisy, ball-slapping, bed-shaking, and anyone with a brain in their head could tell what the hell is happening, but Gabriel and Sam are in their own world. Gabriel can feel it when Sam comes inside him, and it sends him over the edge too. 

There are no bones left in Gabriel’s body. All brain cells are missing in action. Gabriel isn’t even sure that he’s breathing, but Sam is and he likes to think Sam would jump to attention if he was suffocating. 

The first breath he registers entering his lungs turns into a laugh on the exhale. Sam looks up at him, hair flat with sweat and cheeks bright red with exertion. He asks, “What?” 

“That was awesome,” is all Gabriel says. 

“Yeah,” Sam smiles and slides out of Gabriel. Though he tosses the condom in the general direction of his trash can, he doesn’t make a concentrated effort to make sure it makes it in. Instead, he flops back down and rests his head on Gabriel’s chest and mutters, “Man, I don’t wanna get up yet.” 

Gabriel drags his fingers through the sweaty tendrils hanging in front of Sam’s face. God, he could look at this every day. 

His chest suddenly starts to ache. He admits, “Me neither.” 

They’re so sweaty and sticky, but Sam hugs him close anyway. Gabriel just keeps stroking, trying to get a handle on the maelstrom of feelings that this swishy-haired asshole kicks up within him. 

“Come with me.” 

Gabriel looks to see Sam staring at him in earnest. He frowns. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “Three times in an hour might even push my limits.” 

“No, not that,” Sam chuckles and shifts up. “I meant come to California with me.” 

Gabriel’s frown deepens so significantly that it actually hurts his face.

“And do what?” 

Sam shrugs, “Whatever you were gonna do here?” 

“So, at the most optimistic, peddle my ass behind sleazy bars?” 

“Shut up,” Sam pokes him again. “You’re gonna do awesome things.”

Rather than rattle off some sarcastic remark, Gabriel just lets out a laugh and says, “Thanks.” 

When he looks back at Sam, he’s still got that same stupid earnest look on his face. It’s true, his prospects in California would be a lateral move from his prospects here, and at least in California he’d be with Sam. 

That’s so much more of a bright spot than Gabriel expected it would be. 

He concedes, “I’ll think about it, okay?” 

And suddenly the sweaty, sticky Winchester in his arms becomes a very happy Winchester as well. 


End file.
